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THE 



EVERY-DAY BOOK 



OF 



MODERN LITERATURE. 

A SERIES OF 
SHORT READINGS FROM THE BEST AUTHORS. 

COMPILED AND ED|TED BY THE LATE 

GEORGE H. TOWNSEND, 

AUTHOR AND EDITOR OF "tHE MANUAL OF DATES." 



' A good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up 
on purpose to a life beyond life." — Milton. 



N E.W EDITION. 




\\ 1878^ 



LONDON : 
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 

BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
NEW YORK : SCRIBNER, WELFORD AND CO. 



[ 



/ - 

9r 



o^^ 



t^Vi^ 



• X<1 



LONDON : 

SAVILL, EDWARDS AND CO., PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET, 

COVENT GARDEN. 



n 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The " Every-day Book of Modern Literature" is a posthumous 
work. Its compiler and editor, the late Mr. George Townsend, 
died just as it was on the verge of completion, but he left 
a plan of the whole book, in strict accordance with which it 
has been finished. 

The " Every-day Book" is intended to provide a daily short 
reading (occupying about a quarter of an hour s time in its 
perusal) for those who have little leisure for study ; and as it 
supplies 365 Extracts from all 'the best Authors of Essays, 
Fiction, History, Travels, Poetry, Divinity, &c. &c., from the 
age of Elizabeth (including a few earlier specimens) to the 
present day, with short Biographical Notices and lists of their 
works, it is believed that it will not only afford a good general 
idea of Modern Literature, but will prove an available guide 
in a more extended course of reading. 

The Publishers, on the part of the late Mr. Townsend, thank 
the owners of all copyrights for their ready acquiescence in 
permitting them to use the Extracts. 

In case of any omission (owing to the above-named circum- 
.stance), the Publishers here tender their obligations. 

Bedford Street, Covent Garden, 
January, 1870. 



INDEX 



SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



NO. OK 

SUBJECT. 

1. Formation of the English Language 

2. Riccabocca on Revolution . , . 
!?. Great Era of Scholasticism . . . 



lO. 

II. 

12. 

14. 
IS- 



4. The Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem . , . . 

5. The Importance of Method 

6. Self-Love and Reason 

7. Of Contentedness in all Estates and Accidents 

8. The Philosophy of Proverbs 

9. The Drop of Water 

Illustrious Ancestry 

The Zincali ; or, the Gypsies in Spain . . 
Teufelsdrockh's Night View of the City . . 

Lines on my Mother's Picture 

The Majesty of Christ 

The Long Life of Books 

16. The Fall of Jerusalem 

17. The Life of Bishop Aidan 

18. _The Legend of King Solomon and the 

Hoopoes 

19. The Tuileries 

20. Ode to a Nightingale 

21. Of Paradise 

22. Of Travel 

23. The Choice of a Necklace 

24. The Burning of Rome, A. D. 817 . . . . 

25. The Island of Zipangu or Japan . . . . 

26. Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford 

27. The Last Man 



Henry Hallam 
Lord Lytton . 
Dean Milman . 
Sir John Mandeville 
S. T. Coleridge . 

Pope 

Bp. Jeremy Taylor 
Isaac Disraeli 
Hans C. Andersen 
Edward Gibbon . 
George Borrow . 
Carlyle , . . 
Coivper .... 
Rev. W. A. Butler 
Rev. R. A. Willmott 
Rev. G. Croly 
Venerable Bede 

Hon. R. Curzon 



J. W. Croker , 
John Keats. . 
Bishop Hall . 
Lard Bacon . 
Miss Austen . 
Rev. C. Merivale 
Marco Polo . 
Washington Irvin 
T. Campbell , 



PAGE 
I 

4 
8 

10 
13 
14 
17 
21 
24 

25 
28 

31 

3.^ 
36 

39 
40 

43 
45 
48 
SO 
53 
57 
59 
63 
65 
68 
70 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



38. 
39- 
40. 
41. 
42. 

43- 
44. 

43. 



48. 
49. 
SO- 
SI- 

S2. 

S3- 
S4- 

S6. 

S7- 
S8. 
59- 



Castle 



NO. OF 
SUBJECT. 

28. Man before the Fall . ■ . . . 

29. Origin of Romance ... , , 

30. The Be gar and his Dog . , 

31. Character of Thomas Becket 

32. Crocodile Shooting on the Nile. 
^2. St. Nicholas of Myra .... 

34. Adamaster, the Spirit of the Cape 

35. Christian and Hopeful in Doubting 

36. Lord Bacon 

37. The Duel 

The Valley and City of Mexico 
The Butterfly Trick . . . 

Night and Day 

G eece. Ancient and Modern 
Home Influences .... 

Reading 

The Starling ; or, the Blessings of Liberty 
The Character of Lucius Cary Falkland 

46. The Pamboo-Kaloo, or Snake-Stone 

47. The Amphitheatre at Nismes . . 
Man was made to Mourn ... . 

A Heavenly Mind 

Sunrise in the Forest 

Anastasius and the Wizard . . . 
Boswell's Introduction to Dr. Johnson 

Th" River Jordan 

The La ge Dose of Opium . . . 
Adam and Eve in Eden .... 
The Knowledge of Truth . . . 

Of Heroic Virtue 

A Scene at Halloran Castle . . . 
Cnaracter of Publius Scipio . . . 

60. Discovery of the Pacific Ocean . . 

61. Different Minds 

62. The Character of Absalom . . . 

63. All-Sufficiency of the Christian Relig 

64. Of Obscurity 

65. The Barber of Bagdad .... 

66. The Character of Wallenstein . . 

67. The Pyramids 

68. A Lover's Heart served up as a Dish 

69. The Mus cal Contest 

70. God's Law Manifested by Creation 



on 



Pev. R. South . , 
T. IVarloii . . . 
H. Mackeinie . . 
Eev. J. C. Robertson 
E. B. M'arburton 
Mrs. Jameson, 
Cumoeiis . . , 
John Biunj'.tii . , 
/'. Sclileget . . , 
T. E. Uaolc . , 



rr. H. Prescott 
S. O.slorn . . 



Mrs. Gaff!/ . . 
Lord By roil 
I ev. G. lo'vnsend 
John Locke 
Pev. L. Sterne 
Lord Clarendon . 
J. E. Tennent. . 
D. T. AiLsted . . 
P. Burns 

Rev. P. Baxter . 
Pev. W. Gilpin . 
Thomas Hope . 
James Boswell 
De Lamartine 
De Quincey . . 
Milton .... 
Thomas a Kempis 
Sir TV. Temple . 
Miss Edgeu-orth . 
Theodore Mommsen 
Arthur Helps . 
R. IV. Emerson . 
John Dryden . 
John Tillotson 
Abraham Coicley 
James Murier 
Schiller .... 
G. B. Behoni . . 
James Howell . . 
John Ford . . . 
Richard Hooker . 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



NO. OF 
SUBJECT. 

7i. On Tyranny and the Employment of Mer- 
cenaries by Tyrants 

72. Old London from Old St. Paul's .... 

73. Reflections on the Trial of Mary Queen of Scots 

74. Lake Nyassa . 

75. On Magnetism 

76. The Combat between Tancred and Argentes 

77. The Apostles Fishers of Men 

78. Knowledge of Mankind 

79. Balthazar Claes in his Laboratory .... 
8-\ The Witena-Gemot, or Anglo-Saxon Parlia^ 

ment 

81. Mandingo Negro's Story ...... 

82. Of the Pictures of the Nine Worthies . . 

83. Demeanour in Church ...... 

84. The Religion of Protestants 

85. Pascal's Provincial Letters 

86. The Storm at Sea , 

87. Wolsey's Exactions , 

88. Lady Hester Stanhope and the Arabs . , , 

89. Precision of Language 

Christmas . 

The Household of a Christian 

Of the Origin and Use of Money .... 

Phoebe Pyncheon's Chamber 

The Girondist 

Small Feet of the Chinese Women . . . 

96. Of Humility 

97. On a Distant Prospect of Eton College . , 

98. The Blessedness of_God's House .... 

99. The Progress of Civilization , 

ICO. The Golden Goblet 

loi. Intercourse with Princes ....... 

102. The Source of the Nile 

103. Effects of Music , 

104. Life Compared to a Sea 

105. Example better than Precept 

106. Lord Byron's Poetry • 

107. The Officer and the Convict 

108. The Character of James IIL of Scotland . , 

109. The Calmucks 

no. Sir Roger de Coverley at Church . . . , 
III. Early Recollections 



90. 
91. 
92. 
93. 
94. 
9.V 



H^alter Raleigh , . . 183 

PK H. Ainsworth . . 185 

Paul de Rapin . . . 187 

David Livingstone . . 189 

Baron von Humboldt . 191 

Torquato Tasso . . . 193 

Bishop Latimer . . . 197 

William Hazlitt . . 200 

Honore de Balzac . . 20I 

S. Turner 204 

Mungo Park . . . 207 

Sir Thomas Browne . 209 

George Herbert . . . 211 

Rev. IV. Chillingworth 213 

James Stephen . . . 214 

Sir Philip Sidney . . 216 

Rev. J. Foxe .... 218 

A. W. Kinglake . . , 220 

Thomas Hobbes . . . 222 

Mrs. Gascoigne . , , 224 

Rev. Dr. A If or d , . 227 

Adam Smith .... 229 

Nathaniel Hatvthorne . 231 

Sir A. Alison .... 233 

Lord Macartney . . , 235 

Owen Feltham . . . 237 

Thomas Gray .... 239 

Archdeacon Hare . . 242 

Rev. Dr. Robertson . . 244 

Ludwig Tieck .... 246 

Bishop Burnet , . . 249 

Capt. Speke .... 251 

Rev. R. Burton . . . 252 

F. Quarles 254 

Rev. Dr. Barrow . . 256 

Francis Jeffrey . . . 259 

Frederick Gerstaecker . 260 

P. F. Tytler .... 264 

Dr. Clarke .... 266 

Joseph Addison ... 268 

Samuel Rogers , . . 271 



vin 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND aUTHOFS. 



NO. OF 
SUBJECT. 

112. On the Writings of the Apostles . . , . 

113. Knowledge of the Mind and its Faculties , 

114. John Hali^ 

115. The Theses of Luther 

116. The Climate of Palestine 

117. Sagacity of the Poodle 

118. Sloth and Activity 

119. The Faithful Minister 

1 20. The Poor Relation 

121. The Snow Storm 

122. Old Inventions Revived 

123. An African King 

124. Pepys at the Assay Office ...... 

125. The Boy and the Angel 

126. Gentleness 

127- The English Constitution 

128. The Knights of the Temple 

129. Execution of Sir Thomas More . . , . 

130. "The King of all the Friendly Isles'* . . 

Fortitude in Adversity 

The Shades of Night 

Cruelty to Animals 

Character of Lord Mansfield 

Midnight Visit to a Father's Grave . . . 

136. The Accession of Queen Mary 

137. Excavations at Nimroud 

138. The Strand 

139. On a Survey of the Heavens 

Redeemed from Sin 

The Favourite of the People 

Mr. Pecksniff and his Pupil 

The Island of Utopia 

Mecca 

The Cavalry Charge at Balaklava .... 

146. The Last Day 

147. Restoration of the Jews 

148. Memory in different Individuals .... 

149. Lowood School 

The Festival of the Bambino 

Sailing through the Ice . 

How the Victory of Blenheim was celebrated 

The Garland 

God calleth thee 



131. 
132. 

133- 
135- 



140. 
141. 
142. 

143- 
144. 

145- 



150 
151. 

152. 
153. 
»S4 



Dr. Paley . . 
Dr. Reid . . 
Miss Muloch . 
Merle D^Axihigne 
Dr.Kitto . . 
Edward Jesse . 
Robert Pollok . 
Rev. T. Fuller 
Charles Lamb 
Professor Wilson 
Samuel Smiles 
Richard Lander 
Samuel Pepys . 
Robert Broivning 
Dr. H. Blair . 
Edmund Burke 
JV. M. Thackeray 
J. A. Froude . 
Captain Cook . 
Robert Greene 
William Wordsworth 
Rev. Dr. Chalmers 
Junius .... 
Mrs. Radcliffe . 
Rev. J, Strype 
A. H. Layard 
Leigh Hunt , . 
Kirke-White . . 
Archbishop Trench 
J. L. Delolme . . 
Charles Dickens . 
Sir T. More . . 
J. L. Burckhardt 
W. H. Russell . . 
Dr. Young . . . 
Rev. E. Bickersteth 
Dugald Stewart . 
Mrs. Nicholls . . 
James Whiteside . 
Sir John Ross . . 
E. Budgell . . 
Matthew Prior . 
Dr. Pusey . . . 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



NO. OF 
SUBJECT. 

155. Verbal Questions mistaken for Real . . 

156. Arthur Lygon 

157. Goldsmith preparing for a Medical Degree 

158. The Convent of St. Catherine .... 

159. Plato 

160. The Feast of Roses 

i6r. Indifference of the World to Religion . . 

162. Of Sleeping Laws 

163. Ruth's Sorrow 

164. The Games of Greece 



171. 
172. 

173. 
174. 



166. Education of the Middle Classes . . . . 

167. The Grave 

168. The Conversion of S. Augustine . . . . 

169. Condition of the Chinese 

1 70. Mr. Galloway and his Clerks 

Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester . . . 

The Javanese 

Comets 

Henry V. at Agincourt 

175. Christ's Ascension 

176. The Lords and Commons 

177. An Irish Jockey 

178. Massacre of English Colonists in America 

by the Indians 

179. Caen 

180. Observations on the Tench 

181. Excelsior 

182. A Life of Pleasure 

183. Changes in Language always in Progress 

184. Dives and the Hand of Death 

185. Chatterton's Processes of Invention . . . 

186. Advantages derived from Intercourse with 

Foreign Countries . 

187. The Prcper Study of History 

188. The Sky-Lark 

189. There is a God 

190. Butler's Moral Philosophy 

191. The Bishop's Chaplain 

192. Lazarillo De Tormes, and its Imitators . . 

193. Tombs in Rome 

194. Newton's Theory of the Tides 

195. Hector's Address to the Trojan Chiefs . • 



Archbishop ^Phately 
Shirley Brooks . 
John Forster . 
Lord Lindsay . . 
Sir James Macintosh 
Thomas Moore 
Bishop Bloinfield 
Jeremy Bentham 
Mrs. Gaskell . . 
William Mitford 
Sir John Bowring 
Dr. Arnold . . 
James Montgomery 
Dean Stanley . 
Lord Brougham . 
Mrs. Henry Wood 
David Hume . . 
Sir John Barroiu 
Sir J. F. W. Herschel 
William Shakspeare 
Bishop Pearson . 
Sir W. Blackstone 
Charles James Lever 

George Bancroft . 

Rolert Bell . . 
Izaak Walton . . 
H. W. Longfelloic 
Archbishop Seeker 
Sir Charles Lyell 
G. A. H. Sala . 
David Masson 

R. Hakluyt . . 

Henry St. John . 
P. B. Shelley . . 
Dr. Watts . . « 
Dr. Wheivell . . 
Anthony Trollope 
George Ticknor . 
Rev. J. C. Eustace 
Sir D. Brewster . 
Lord Derby . , 



PAGE 
369 

373 
375 
377 
376 
,381 
383 
386 
388 
59^ 
392 
394 
398 
400 

403 
405 
408 
409 
411 

413 
416 
419 

422 

424 
426 
428 
429 
431 
433 
434 

438 

440 
442 
446 
448 
450 
453 
455 
457 
460 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



NO. OF 
SUBJECT. 

196. The Excellency of the Christian Religion . 

197. Of the Natural Signs of the Passions . . . 

198. The Plague in London in 1665 . . . . 

199. The Infancy of Edward VI 

200. The Nowroose, or the New Year in Persia . 
20T. Civilization in England 

202. True Valour 

203. Fanaticism 

204. Utilitarianism 

205. The Triangular Duel 

206. The London Coffee Houses in 1685 . . . 

207. Among the Ice 

208. Fossils of the Old Red Sandstone .... 

209. The Treasures of the Deep 

210. Of the Government of God by Rewards and 

Punishments 

211. Of the Affection of Parents to their Children . 

212. Castle-Building 

213. The Eve of Blenheim 

214. The Antiquities of Tebessa 

215. Frost Fair on the Thames 

216. The Loss of Eden 

217. David's Prayer for Himself and Son . . . 

218. Of Grace 

219. George, III, at Windsor after Margaret 

Nicholson's Attempt on his Life . . . 

220. Character of Oliver Crom^well 

221. Attempt at Murder by a Maroon Negro . . 

222. Learning a Better Teacher than Experience. 

223. The Actor's Defence 

224. Examples of God's ready Help in Extreme 

Perils 

225. On Quack Doctors 

226. The Infuriated Cats . . ., 

227. The Battle of Hastirgs 

228. Vallombrosa 

229. Emigration 

230. The Benevolent Miser 

231. Loneliness 

232. Characters of the Members of the Club at 

the "Trumpet" 

233. Clovernook and its Inn 

234. The Targums or Translations 

235. Partridge at the Play 



Bishop Sherlock . 
Joseph Priestley . 
Daniel De Foe . 
Miss A. Strickland 
Sir R. Ker Porter 
H. T. Buckle . . 
Ben Jonson . . 
Bishop War bur ton 
John Stuart Mill 
Captain Marry at 
Lord Macaulay . 
Sir W. E. Parry 
Hugh Miller . . 
Mrs. Hemans . . 

Bishop Butler 

M. de Montaigne 
Sir Walter Scott . 
Archdeacon Coxe 
Nathan Davis . 
John Evelyn . . 
Robert Blair . . 
Archbishop Laud 
Rev. A. Alison . 



Madame D'Arblay 



F. P. G. Guizot . 
Madame Pfeiffer 
Roger Ascham 
Philip Massinger 

Nicholas Ridley . 

Oliver Goldsmith 
Henry Brooke 
Sir F. Palgrave . 
Joseph Forsyth . 
Rev. Sydney Smith 
Rev. G. Crabbe . 
Rev. C. J. Faughan 



■Sir Richard Steele 

Douglas Jerrold . 
Rev. Dr. Pridcaux 
Henry Fielding . 



INDEX Oh SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



NO. OF 

SUBJECT. 

236. The Old Scottish Domestic Servant . . . 

237. The Friend of Humanity and the Knife- 

grinder 

238. Time and Eternity 

239. Venice 

240. Dark John of the Glen 

241. The Natural Bridge; or. One Niche the 

Highest 

242. Mrs. Poyser Speaks her Mind to the Squire. 

243. Poetry 

244. The Cry of the Children 

245. The Christian's Dependence upon his Re- 

deemer 

246. Thoughts and Aphorisms 

247. Jerusalem 

248. Death of Nelson 

249. The Northern Lights 

250. Imaginary Conversation between Sir Philip 

Sidney and Lord Brooke 

251. The Bells • . 



Rev. Dean Ramsay . . 


PAGE 
563 


Right Hon. George Can- 




ning 


5^5 


Bishop Heler .... 


567 


John Ritskm .... 


5^9 


Jf'hyte MeLviUe . . . 


hV- 


Elihu Burritt . . . 


575 


George Eliot .... 


578 


Dr. Channing . . . 


583 



Elizabeth B. Browning . 585 
Archbishop Sumner . . 590 



252. The Garden of Eden ..,,,.,, 

253. Changes in a Language .,,.,., 

254. Clarissa Harlowe Dying , 

255. The Death of the Conqueror .... 

256. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's Virit to : 

Turkish Lady ...,...., 

Life of Plato 

Maud MuUer 

Honour all Men 

The Joy of Grief 

The Indian Adoption 

262. Kara George 

263. Universality of Man 

264. Roger Bacon 

2^-5. Tell's Speech 

266. Personal Religion both Active and Contem- 

plative 

267. The Improwisatore 



257- 
258. 

259- 
260. 
261. 



268. Departure of Thaddeus from Warsaw 

269. The Battle of Liitzen 

270. Snakes and their Antidotes . . . . 

271. Klopstock 

272. The Burial of Moses 



Dean Swift . . . . 593 

Right Hon. B. Disraeli 596 

Robert Sonthey . . . 6co 

Moreau de Maupetiuis . 603 

14'alter Savage Landor . 605 

Edgar Allan Poe . . 608 

Bishop Home, . . . 6ii 

Samuel Johnson . . . 616 

Samuel Richardson . . 6 in 

Charles Knight . . . 622 
Lady Mary Wortley 

Montagu .... 626 

George H. Lewes . . 627 

J. G. Whittier ... 631 

Archbishop Leighton . 635 

Leitch Ritchie .... 640 

JaYnes Fenimore Cooper 643 

Leopold Ranke . . . 646 

Dr. Latham .... 649 

Rev. Joseph Berington . 652 

James Sheridan Knowles 655 

Dean Goulburn . . . 657 

J. C. L. Simonde de Sis- 

viondi 
Jane Porter 
Wolfgang Menzel 
Thomas Pringle . 
Madame de Stael . 
Mrs. C. F. Alexander 



660 
663 
666 
669 

673 
67; 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND JUTHOUS. 



NO OF 
SUBJECT. 

273. Faith and Morality 

274. Variety which characterizes Works of Ima- 

gination 

2715. Hernana and the Hat 

276. Florence under Lorenzo de Medici . . . 

277. The Lapps 

278. The Journey of Life 

279. The High Tide 

280. The New Commandment 

281. The Library 

282. Commodore Trunnion's Ride 

285. The Image-Breakers of the Netherlands, 1566 

284. Origin of Deserts 

285. The Stork 

286. Ion's Intercession 

287. On Self-denial 

288. Macbeth 

289. The Minister's "Placing" 

290. Plague in Athens, and Death of Pericles 

Powers of the Air and the Sea 

A Counterfeit Presentment 

Home at Last 

Comparison between the World and the 

Church 

A Character of Napoleon Bonaparte . . . 

How the Tide Turned 

Odin 

298. Caravan in the Desert 

299. La Fayette 

The Sack of Baltimore 

Necessity and Benefits of the Lord's Supper 
Friendship Manifested in French Women 
The Ruined Gentleman 

304. The Story of Romulus and Remus . . . 

305. Panoramic View of Rome 

306. The Bachelor's Thermometer 

307. Violet 

308. Church and State 

309. Books 

310. An Awfu' Night 

311. Death and Character of William the Silent, ) 

Prince of Orange \ 

312. Thebes in i868 

313. The Cowardly Captain 



291. 
292. 

293- 
294. 

295- 
296. 
297. 



300. 
30T. 
302. 
303- 



Dr. Samuel Parr 

Rev. Robert Hall 

Anne Marsh- Caldwell 
Tfiliiam Roscoe 
Lord Dufferin 
J. B. A. Karr 
Jean bigelow . 
Bishop Horsley 
Horace Smith . 
Tobias Smollett 
John Lothrop Motley 
Robert Mudie . 
Bishop Stanley 
Mr. Justice Talfourd 
Bishop Beveridge 
Aug. Wm. von Schlegel 
John Gait . 
Bishop Thirlicall 
Matthew F. Maury 
John Hollingshead 
Tom Hood . . . 

Rev. Wm. Jones . 

Charles P. Phillips 
Thomas Hughes . 
Dr. Thomas Percy 
J. S. Buckingham 
Edward Everett . 
Thomas Davis . , 
Bishop Mant . . 
Julia Kavanagh . 
Henry Kingsley . 
B. G. Niebuhr . 
H. M. Williams . 
James Smith . 
Alexander Smith 
Bishop Newton . 
Oliver Wendell Holmes 
D. M. Moir . . 



T. C. Grattan . 

Lady Duff-Gordon 
Beaumont and Fletcher 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



315. 
316. 

317. 
318. 

319- 
320. 



323- 
334. 

325. 



NO. OF 
SUBJECT. 

314. Zara's Ear-rings 

Death and Character of St. Peter .... 

Previsions . . . 

The Vicar in Prison 

The Trial of the Scottish Lords, 1746 . . 
A Chat with Frederick the Great .... 
Elves 

321. Sleep, Baby, Sleep! 

322. Before the Flood 

The Dawn of Modern English Poetry . . 

The Swedish Home 

A Noble Roman 

326. Domestic Life in Egypt in 1776 . . . . 

327. Shakspeare and ^schylus compared . . . 

328. Song of the Shirt 

329. The Age of Columba 

330. The Youth of Pindar 

Lord Ipsden Converses with the " Lower 

Orders," in compliance with his Doctor^s 
Prescription 

Cicero's Travels in Greece and Asia . . . 

The Island of Lewchew in 1816 . . . . 

The Breath of Life 

Milton at Cripplegate 

336. The Early American Church 

337. On the Liberty of the Press 

338. Difficulties in Buying a Present . . . . 

339. Battle of Agincourt 

340. Down the Amazons 

341. Aunt Sarah's Advice ........ 

342. The Cambro-Britain's Ballad of Agincourt . 
On the Inspiration of the Holy Scriptures . 

On the Genius of Scott 

Berenger de Ribaumont finds his Child and 

Wife in the besieged Huguenot Fortress . 

346. Augustus Caesar 

347. The Simoon 



331- 



332. 
333- 
334. 
335- 



343- 
344- 

345- 



348. On Purpose in Life 

349. The Astrologer's Chamber 

350. The Evangelists' Description of the Charac- 

ter of our Lord 

351. On the Consciousness of Immortality. . 



PAGE 

J. G. Lockhart . . . 801 

Rev. Wiliiam Cave . . 802 

Rev. A. K. H. Boyd . 806 

Oliver Goldsmith . . 808 

Horace JValpole . . . 811 

John Moore . . . . 814 

Thomas Keightley . . 815 

George Wither . . . 818 

Veil. Archdeacon Evans 820 

AheL Francois FilLemain 824 

Frederika Bremer . . 826 

Goldwin Smith . . . 8'>.9 

Nicholas Savary . . . 833 

Richard Cumberland . 835 

Thomas Hood .... 837 

Bishop IVordsworth . . 840 

Karl Otfried Midler . 843 

Charles Reade . . . 846 

Conyers Middleton . . 849 

Dr. John M'Leod , . 852 

Michael Faraday . . 854 

Charles Kent . . . . 856 

Bishop fVilberforce . . 860 

Milton 863 

Samuel Lover . . . . 866 

Sir Harris Nicolas . . 870 

Louis Agassiz , . . . 874 

Elizabeth Mary Sewell 876 

Michael Drayton . . 878 

Bishop Tomline . . . 882 

Francis Turner Palgrave 885 

Miss C. M. Yonge . . 887 

Rev. Charles Merivale . 890 
TVilliam Gifford Pal- 
grave 893 

James Hain Friswell . 895 

Schiller and Coleridge , 897 

Rev. Joseph IFhite . . 899 

Sir Humphry Davy . 902 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND AUTHORS. 



NO. OF 
SUBJECT. PAGE 

352. Captain Wragge Introduces his Niece to Mrs. ) j^-r rrm ■ r^ n- 

Wragge \^' ^^^^^^ Collins . . 904 

V ^u i^ TVT 1 \ L. A. Fauvelet de Bour- 

^K^. Youth of Napoleon -i . , 

*'*'*' ^ / rienne 906 

354. The Island Camp Sir SamuelTVhite Baker 909 

355. Climate of Paris compared with that of London Sir Francis Bead . . 911 

356. Resignation Rev. John Kehle . . . 913 

357. National Responsibility Rev. Henry Melvill . 916 

358. Love of Nature in the Decline of Life . . . Lord Lylton . . . . 917 

359. The He 'ge Schoolmaster ...... Lady Morgan . . . 919 

360. The Water-gate of the Tower . . . * . William Hepivorth Dixon 922 

361. Struensee Nathaniel JV.Wraxall . 925 

362. The Field of the Forty Footsteps .... John Timhs .... 927 

363. The Lady Clare Alfred Tennyson . . . 929 

2^4- ^p;3yer ^f']^^. ^T""/ ^''r'^f ""] ^?''? °!} ^'^- ^^^^^'' si^'''^ ' 931 

365. Cause of the Defects in Modern Poetry . . Rev. Charles King sley , 934 



]^f^^- 



INDEX 



AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

ADDISON, JOSEPH, Sir Roger de Coverley at Church 268 

Agassiz, Louis, Down the Amazons 874 

AiNswoRTH, W. H., Old London from Old St. Paul's 185 

Alexander, Mrs. C. F., The Burial of Moses 675 

Alford, Rev. Dr., The Household of a Christian 227 

Alison, Rev. A., Of Grace 511 

Alison, Sir A., The Girondists 233 

Anderson, Hans C, The Drop of Water 24 

Ansted, D. T., The Amphitheatre at Nismes 126 

Arnold, Dr., Education of the Middle Classes 392 

AscHAM, Roger, Learning a better Teacher than Experience 521 

Austen, Miss, The Choice of a Necklace 59 



BACON, LORD, Of Travel 57 

Baker, Sir Samuel White, The Island Camp 909 

Balzac, Honor^ de, Balthazar Claes in his Laboratory 201 

Bancroft, George, Massacre of English Colonists in America by the Indians 422 

Barrow, Rev. Dr., Example better than Precept 256 

Barrow, Sir John, The Javanese 408 

Baxter, Rev. R., A Heavenly Mind , 131 

Beaumont and Fletcher, The Cowardly Captain 788 

Bede, Venerable, The Life of Bishop Aidan 43 

Bell, Robert, Caen 424 

Belzoni, G. B., The Pyramids 175 

Bentham, Jeremy, Of Sleeping Laws 383 

Berington, Rev. Joseph, Roger Bacon 652 

Beveridge, Bishop, On Self-Denial 724 

Bickersteth, Rev. E., Restoration of the Jews 355 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

Blackstone, Sir W., The Lords and Commons 416 

Blair, Dr. H,, Gentleness 306 

Blair, Robert, The Loss of Eden 508 

Blomfi ELD, Bishop, Indifference of the World to Religion 381 

Borrow, George, TheZencali; or, the Gypsies in Spain 28 

BoswELL, James, Boswell's Introduction to Dr. Johnson 139 

Bourrienne, Louis Antonio Fauvelet de. Youth of Napoleon .... 906 

BowRiNG, Sir John, The Friars of the Philippine Islands 390 

EoYD, Rev. Andrew Kennedy Hutchinson, Previsions 806 

Bremer, Frederika, The Swedish Home 826 

Brewster, Sir David, Newton's Theory of the Tides ^57 

Brooke, Henry, The Infuriated Cats 533 

Brooks, Shirley, Arthur Lygon 371 

Brougham, Lord, Condition of the Chinese 400 

Browne, Sir Thomas, Of the Pictures of the Nine Worthies 209 

Bbowning, Elizabeth B,, The Cry of the Children 585 

Browning, Robert, The Boy and the Angel 303 

Buckingham, J. S., Caravan in the Desert 756 

Buckle, H. T., Civilization in England 473 

Budgell, E., How the Victory of hlenheim was celebrated 364 

BuNYAN, John, Christian and Hopeful in Doubting Castle 91 

Burckhardt, Jean Louis, Mecca 347 

Burke, Edmund, The English Constitution 308 

Burnet, Bishop, Intercourse with Princes 249 

Burnet, Rev. R., Effects of Music 252 

Burns, Robert, Man was Made to Mourn 12S 

BuRRiTT, Elihu, The Natural Bridge; or. One Niche the Highest . . . 575 

Butler, Bishop, Of the Government of God by Rewards and Punishments 494 

Butler, Rev. W. A., The Majesty of Christ 36 

Byron, Lord, Greece, Ancient and Modern io3 



CALDWELL, ANNE MARSH, Hernana and the Hat C84 

Camoens, Adamaster, the Spirit of the Cape 88 

Campbell, T., The Last Man 70 

Canning, Right Hon. George, The Friend of Humanity and the Knife- 
grinder 565 

Carlyle, Teufelsdrockh's Night View of the City 31 

Cave, Rev. William, Death and Character of St. Peter 802 

Chalmers, Rev. Dr., Cruelty to Animals 322 

Channing, Dr., Poetry 5 83 

Chillingworth, Rev. W., The Religion of Protestants 213 

Clarendon, Lord, The Character of Lucius Cary Falkland 119 

Clarke, Dr., The Calmucks 266 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

Coleridge and Schiller, The Astrologer's Chamber 897 

Coleridge, S. T., The Importance of Method 13 

Collins, W. Wilkie, Captain Wragge Introduces his Niece to Mrs. Wragge 904 

Cook, Captain, "The King of all the Friendly Isles " 316 

Cooper, James Fenimore, The Indian Adoption 643 

Cowley, Abraham, Of Obscurity 168 

CowPER, Lines on My Mother's Picture ^^ 

CoxE, Archdeacon, The Eve of Blenheim 502 

Crabbe, Rev. G., The Benevolent Miser 542 

Croker, J. W., The Tuileries 48 

Croly, Rev. G., The Fall of Jerusalem 40 

Cumberland, RrcHARD, Shakspeare and iEschylus Compared 835 

CuRzoN, Hon. R., The Legend of King Solomon and the Hoopoes ... 45 



D'ARBLAY, MADAME,"George the Third at Windsor, after Margaret 

Nicholson's Attempt on his Life 513 

D'Aubigne', Merle, The Theses of Luther 280 

Davis, Nathan, The Antiquities of Tebessa 504 

Davis, Thomas, The Sack of Baltimore 765 

Davy, Sir Humphry, On the Consciousness of Immortality 902 

De Foe, Daniel, The Plague in London in 1665 465 

Delolme, J. L., The Favourite of the People 339 

Derby, Lord, Hector's Address to the Trojan Chiefs 460 

Dickens, Charles, Mr. PecksniflF and his Pupil 341 

Disraeli, Isaac, The Philosophy of Proverbs 21 

Disraeli, Right Hon. Benjamin, Jerusalem 596 

Dixon, William Hepworth, The Water-gate of the Tower 922 

Drayton, Michael, The Cambro-Briton's Ballad of Agincourt .^ . . . 878 

Dryden, John, The Character of Absolom 163 

Dufferin, Lord, The Lapps C90 

"TDGEWORTH, MISS, A Scene at Halloran Castle 154 

-^ Eliot, George, Mrs. Poyser Speaks her Mind to the Squire .... 578 

Emerson, R. W., Different Minds 162 

Eustace, Rev. J. C, Tombs in Rome 455 

Evans, Ven. Archdeacon, Before the Flood 820 

Evelyn, John, Frost Fair on the Thames 506 

Everett, Edward, La Fayette 761 

"PARADAY, MICHAEL, The Breath of Life 854 

-*- Feltham, Owen, Of Humility 237 

Fielding, Henry, Partridge at the Play 559 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

Ford, John, The Musical Contest 178 

FoRSTER, John, Goldsmith preparing fer a Medical Degree 373 

Forsyth, Joseph, Vallombrosa 538 

FoxE, Rev. J., Wolsey's Exactions 218 

Friswell, James Ha in. On Purpose in Life . , 895 

Froude, J. A., Execution of Sir Thomas More 314 

Fuller, Rev. T., The Faithful Minister 288 



GALT, JOHN, The Minister's "Placing" 731 I 

Gascoigne, Mrs., Christmas 224 

Gaskell, Mrs., Ruth's Sorrow 386 

Gatty, Mrs., Night and Day 105 

Gerstaecker, Frederick, The Officer and the Convict 260 

Gibbon, Edward, Illustrious Ancestry 25 

Gilpin, Rev. W., Sunrise in the Forest 134 

Goldsmith, Oliver, On Quack Doctors 530 

Goldsmith, Oliver, The Vicar in Prison 808 

Gordon, Lal»y Duff, Thebes in 1868 796 

GouLBURN, Dean, Personal Religion both Active and Contemplative . . . 657 
Grattan, Thomas Colley, Death and Character of William the Silent, 

Prince of Orange 793 

Gray, Thomas, On a Distant Prospect of Eton College 269 

Greene, Robert, Fortitude in Adversity • 3i7 

GuizoT, F. P. G., Character of Oliver Cromwell 516 

HAKLUYT, R., Advantages Derived from Intercourse with Foreign 

Countries .... 438 

Hall, Bishop, Of Paradise 53 

Hall, Rev. Robert, Variety which Characterizes Works of Imagination . 682 

Hallam, Henry, Formation of the English Language i 

Hare, Archdeacon, The Blessedness of God's House 242 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, Phoebe Pyncheon's Chamber 231 

Hazlitt, William, Knowledge of Mankind 200 

Head, Sir Francis, Climate of Paris compared with that of London . . 911 

Heber, Bishop, Time and Eternity 567 

Helps, Arthur, Discovery of the Pacific Ocean 159 

Hemans, Mrs., The Treasures of the Deep 493 

Herbert, George, Demeanour in Church 211 

Herschel, Sir John Frederick William, Comets 409 

Hobbes, Thomas, Precision of Language 222 

Hollingshead, John, A Counterfeit Presentment 738 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, Books 788 

Hood, Thomas, Song of the Shirt , . 837 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

Hood, Tom, Home at Last 742 

Hook, T, E., Tr.e Duel 97 

Hooker, Richard, God's Law Manifested by Creation iSi 

Hope, Thomas, Anastasius and the Wizard 135 

HoRN'E, Bishop, The Garden of Eden 6ji 

HoRSLEY, Bishop, The New Commandment 700 

HowELL, James, A Lover's Heart served up as a Dish 177 

Hughes, Thomas, How the; Tide Turned 75© 

Humboldt, Bafon von. On Magnetism 191 

Hcme, David, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester 405 

HuN-T, Leigh, The Strand 334 



I 



NGELOW, JEAN, The High Tide 696 

Irving, Washington, Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford 68 



JAMESON, MRS., St. Nicholas of Mvra 86 

Jeffrey, Francis, Lord Byron's Poetry 259 

Jerrold, Douglas, Clovernook and its Inn 55^ 

Jesse, Edward, Sagacity of the Poodle 285 

Johnson, Samuel, Changes in a Language 616 

Jones, Rev. William, Comparison between the World and the Church . 744 

Jonson, Ben, True Valour 475 

Junius, Character of Lord Mansfield 325 



XARR, JEAN BAPTISTE ALPHONSE, The Journey of Life .... 693 

Kavanagh, Julia, Friendship Manifested in French Women . . . 770 

Keats, John, Ode to a Nightingale 50 

Keble, Rev. John, Resignation 913 

Keightley, Thomas, Elves • 815 

Kempis, Thomas a. The Knowledge of Truth 149 

Kent, Charles, Milton at Cripplegate 856 

Kinglake, A. W., Lady Hester Stanhope and the Arabs 220 

Kingsley, Henry, The Ruined Gentleman ..772 

KiNGSLEY, Rev. Charles, Cause of the Defects in Modern Poetry . . . 934 

KiTTO, Dr., The Climate of Palestine 283 

Knight, Charles, The Death of the Conqueror 622 

Knowles, James Sheridan, Tell's Speech 655 



LAMARTINE, DE, The River Jordan 142 
Lamb, Charles, The Poor Relation 291 

Lander, Richard, An African King 300 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

Landor, Walter Savage, Imaginary Conversation between Sir Philip 

Sidney and Lord Brooke 605 

Latham, Dr., Universality of Man 649 

Latimer, Bishop, The Apostles Fishers of Men 197 

Laud, Archbishop, David's Prayer for Himself and Son 509 

Layard, A.. H., Excavations at Nimroud . . 332 

Leighton, Archbishop, Honour all Men 635 

Lever, Charles James, An Irish Jockey 419 

Lewes, George H., Life of Plato 627 

Lindsay, Lord, The Convent of St. Catherine . .- 375 

Livin.gstone, David, Lake Nyassa ..•-•. 189 

Locke, John, Reading 114 

Lockhart, John Gibson, Zara's Ear-rings 801 

Longfellow, H. W., Excelsior 428 

Lover, Samuel, Difficulties in buying a Present 866 

Lyell, Sir Charles, Changes in Language always in Progress .... 431 

Lytton, Lord, Riccabocca on Revolution 4 

Lytton, Lord, Love of Nature in the Decline of Life 917 



MACARTNEY, LORD, Small Feet of the Chinese Women 235 

Macauley, Lord, The London Coffee Houses in 1685 485 

Mackenzie, H., The Beggar and His Dog 79 

Mackintosh, Sir James, Plato 377 

Mandeville, Sir John, The Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem 10 

Ma NT, Bishop, Necessity and Benefits of the Lord's Supper 769 

Marryat, Captain, The Triangular Duel 482 

Massinger, Philiv, The Actor's Defence 533 

Masson, David, Chatterton's Processes of Invention 434 

Maupertuis, Peter Lewis Moreau de. The Northern Lights .... 603 

Maury, Matthew F., Powers of the Air and the Sea 735 

Melvill, Rev. Henry, National Responsibility 916 

Melville, Whyte, Dark John of the Glen 572 

Menzel, Wolfgang, The Battle of Liitzen 666 

Merivale, Rev. Charles, The Burning of Rome, a.d. 817 6:} 

Merivale, Rev. Charles, Augustus Caesar goo 

MiDDLETON, CoNYERs, Cicero's Travels in Greece and Asia 849 

Mill, John Stuart, Utilitarianism 480 

Miller, Hugh, Fossils of the Old Red Sandstone , . ^oi 

Milman, Dean, Great Era of Scholasticism 8 

Milton, Adam and Eve in Eden 14'' 

Milton, On the Liberty of the Press 863 

MiTFORD William, The Games of Greece 388 

M'Leod, Dr. John, The Island of Lewchew in 1816 852 



INDEX OF JUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

' XT; 



MoiR, David Macbeth, An Awfu' Night 790 

MoMMSEN, Theodor, Character of Pub, ius Scipio 157 

Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, Lady Mary W. Montagu's Visit to a 

Turkish Lady 626 

Montaigne, M. de. Of the Affection of Parents to their Children. . . . 497 

Montgomery, James, The Grave 394 

Moore, John, A Chat with Frederick the Great 814 

Moore, Thomas, The Feast of Roses 379 

More, Sir T., The Island of Utopia 345 

Morgan, Lady, The Hedge Schoolmaster 919 

Morier, James, The Barber of Bagdad 170 

Motley, John Lothrop, The Image-breakers of the Netherlands, 1566 . . 711 

Mudie, Robert, Origin of Deserts 715 

MtJLLER, Karl Otfried, The Youth of Pindar 843 

Muloch, Miss, John Halifax , . 277 



"VTEWTON, BISHOP, Church and State 785 

■^^ NiCHOLLs, Mrs., Lowood School 358 

Nicolas, Sir Harris, Battle of Agincourt 870 

Niebuhr, Barthold George, The Story of Romulus and Remus . . . 775 



P SBORN, S., The Butterfly Trick loi 

PALEY, DR., On the Writings of the Apostles 273 

Palgrave, Francis Turner, On the Genius of Scott 885 

Palgrave, Sir F., The Battle of Hastings 536 

Palgrave, William Gifford, The Simoon 893 

Park, Mungo, Mandingo Negro's Story 207 

Parr, Dr* Samuel, Faith and Morality 678 

Parry, Sir W. E., Among the Ice 488 

Pearson, Bishop, Christ's Ascension . , , 413 

Pepys, Samuel, Pepys at the Assay OfEce 301 

Percy, Dr. Thomas, Odin 753 

Pfeifter, Madame, Attempt at Murder by a Maroon Negro 518 

Phillips, Charles P., A Character of Napoleon Bonapaite 747 

PoE, Edgar Allan, The Bells 608 

PoLLOK, Robert, Sloth and Activity 286 

Polo, Marco, The Island of Zepangu or Japan 65 

Pope, Self-love and Reason 14 

Porter, Jane, Departure of Thaddeus from Warsaw ........ 663 

Porter, Sir R. Ker, The Nowroose, or the New Year in Persia • . • • 470 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

PfiEscoTT, W. H., The Valley and City of Mexico loi 

Prideaux, Rev. Dr., The Targums or Translations 555 

Priestley, Joseph, Of the Natural Signs of the Passions 4^4 

Pringle, Thomas, Snakes and their Antidotes C69 

Prior, Matthew, The Garland ?,((> 

PusEY, Dr., God Calleth Thee • • • 3*^7 



Q 



UARLES, F., Life Compared to a Sea 254 

QuiNCEY, De, The Large Dose of Opium 144 



EADCLIFFE, MRS., Midnight Visit to a Father's Grave 327 
Raleigh, Walter, On Tyranny and the Employment of Mercenaries by 

Tyrants 183 

Ramsay, Rev. Dean, The Old Scottish Domestic Servant 5,63 

Ranke, Leopold, Kara George 646 

Rapin, Paul de. Reflections on the Trial of Mary Queen of Scots . . . 187 
Reade, Charles, Lord Ipsden Converses with the "Lower Orders" in 

Compliai-'ce with his Doctor's Prescription 846 

Reid, Dr., Knowledge of the Mind and its Faculties 275 

Richardson, Samuel, Clarissa Harlowe Dying 619 

Ridley, Nicholas, Example of God's Ready Help in Extreme Perils , . 526 

Ritchie, Leitch, The Joy of Grief 640 

Robertson, Rev. Dr., The Progress of Civilization 09 

Robertson, Rev. J. C, Character or Thomas Becket 82 

Rogers, Samuel, Early Recollections 271 

Roscoe, William, Florence under Lorenzo de Medici 687 

Ross, Sir John, Sailing through the Ice 363 

RusKiN, John, Venice 569 

Russell, W. H., The Cavalry Charge at Balaklava 349 



SALA, G. A. H., Dives and the Hand of Death 4?c; 

Savary Nicholas, Domestic Life in Egypt in 1776 8^? 

Schiller and Coleridge, The Astrologer's Chamber 897 

Schiller, The Character of Wallenstein j^2 

Schlegel, Augustus William von, Macbeth j27 

Schlegel, F., Lord Bacon 04 

Scott, Sir W., Castle Building ^tjg 

Secker, Archbishop, A Life of Pleasure 429 

Sewell, Elizabeth Mary, Aunt Sarah's Advice 876 

Shakespeare, William, Henry the Fifth at Agincourt 411 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, The Sky-lark 442 

Sherlock, Bishop, The Excellency of the Christian Religion 461 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS, 



PAGE 

Sidney, Sir Philip, The Storm at Sea 216 

Simeon, Rev. Charles, Benefits derived from a Liturgy or Form of Prayer 931 

SisMONDi, J. C. L. SiMONDE DE, The Improvvisatore 660 

Smiles, Samuel, Old Inventions Revived 297 

Smith, Adam, Of the Origin and Use of Money 229 

Smith, Alexander, Violet 783 

Smith, Goldwin, A Noble Roman 829 

Smith, Horace, The Library 705 

Smith, James, The Batchelor's Thermometer 780 

Smith, Rev. Sydney, Emigration 541 

Smollett, Tobias, Commodore Trunnion's Ride 707 

South, Rev. R., Man Before the Fall 73 

Southey, Robert, Death of Nelson • 600 

Speke, Captain, The Source of the Nile 251 

Stael, Madame de, Klopstock 673 

Stanley, Bishop, The Stork 718 

Stanley, Dean, The Conversion of St. Augustine 398 

Steele, Sir Richard, Characters of the Members of the Club at the 

Trumpet 548 

Stephen, James, Pascal's Provincial Letters 214 

Sterne, Rev. L., The Starling; or, the Blessings of Libery n6 

Stewart, Dugald, Memory in Different Individuals 355 

St. John, Henry, The Proper Study of History 44° 

Strickland, Miss A., The Infancy of Edward VI 467 

Strype, Rev. J., The Accession of Queen Mary 3^9 

Sumner, Archbishop, The Christian's Dependence upon his Redeemer . 590 

Swift, Dean, Thoughts and Aphorisms 593 



TALFOURD, MR. JUSTICE, Son's Intercession 7^1 

Tasso, Torquato, The Combat between Tancred and Argentes . . 193 

Taylor, Bishop Jeremy, Of Conientedness in all Estates and Accidents . 17 

Temple, Sir W,, Of Heroic Virtue • iS^ 

Tennent, J. E., The Pamboo-Kaloo, or Snake-Stone . ....... 123 

Tennyson, Alfred, The Lady Clare 9^9 

Thackeray, William Makepeace, The Knights of the Temple . . . 31° 

Thirlwall, Bishop, Plague in Athens, and Death of Pericles . .... 733 

TicKNOR, George, Lazarillo de Tormes, and its Imitators 453 

TiECK, LuDWiG, The Golden Goblet 246 

TiLLOTsoN, John, All-sufficiency of the Christian Religion 166 

Timbs, John, The Field of the Forty Footsteps 9-''7 

ToMLiNE, Bishop, On the Inspiration of the Holy Scriptures 882 

TowNSEND, Rev. G., Home Influences i''2 

Trench, Archbishop, Redeemed from Sin 338 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 



PAGE 

Trollope, Anthony, The Bishop's Chaplain 450 

Turner, S., The Witena-Gemot, or Anglo-Saxon Parliamexit 204 

Tytler, p. F., The Character of James III. of Scotland 264 



YAUGHAN, REV. C. J., Loneliness 545 
ViLLEMAiN, Abel FRAN901S, The Dawn of Modern English Poetry . 824 



TTTALPOLE, HORACE, The Trial of the Scottish Lords, 1746 ... 811 

'* Walton, IzAAK, Observations on the Tench 426 

Warburton, Bishop, Fanaticism 478 

Warburton, E. B., Crocodile Shooting on the Nile 84 

Warton, T., Origin of Romance , 77 

Watts, Dr., There is a God 446 

Whately, Archbishop, Verbal Questions Mistaken for Real 369 

Whewell, Dr., Butler's Moral Philosophy 448 

White, KiRKE, On a Survey of the Heavens 336 

White, Rev. Joseph, The Evangelists' Description of the Character of our 

Lord 899 

Whiteside, James, The Festival of the Bambino 360 

Whittier, J. G., Maud Miiller 631 

Wilberforce, Bishop, The Early American Church 860 

Williams, Helen Maria, Panoramic View of Rome 777 

WiLLMOTT, Rev. R. A., The Long Life of Books 39 

Wilson, Professor, The Snow Storm . .• 294 

Wither, George, Sleep Baby, Sleep ! 818 

Wood, Mrs. Henry, Mr. Galloway and his Clerks 403 

Wordsworth, Bishop, The Age of Columba 840 

Wordsworth, William, The Shades of Night 319 

Wraxall, Nathaniel William, Struensee 925 



TONGE, MISS C. M., Berenger de Ribaumont finds his Wife and Child 
in the Besieged Huguenot Fortress 887 

Young, Dr., The Last Day 351 




THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



OF 



MODERN LITERATURE. 



I.— FORMATION OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 

Hallam, 1777 — 185^. 

[Henry Hallam, historian and critic, son of Dr. Hallam, Dean of Wells, was born 
at Windsor, July 9, 1777. Educated at Eton and Christ Church, Oxford, he was 
called to the bar by the Inner Temple. Having been appointed a Commissioner of 
Audit he applied himself to literary pursuits, and was one of the early contributors 
to the " Edinburgh Review." Byron noticed him in " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," as 

'*■ Classic Hallam, much renowned for Greek." 

His first work, "A View of the State of Europe during the Middle Ages," was pub- 
lished in 1818. This was followed by "The Constitutiond History of England 
from the Accession of Henry VIL to the Death of George II.," published in 1827. 
His last work, "An Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the Fifteenth, 
Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries," appeared in 1837-9. These are regarded as 
standard works, they have gone through several editions, and have been translated 
into most modern languages. A popular edition of his works was published by 
Murray in 1857. Henry Hallam died Jan. 22, 1859.] 

Nothing can be more difficult than to determine, except by an 
arbitrary line, the commencement of the English language ; not so 
much, as in those of the Continent, because we are in want of mate- 
rials, but rather from an opposite reason, the possibility of tracing a 
very gradual succession of verbal changes that ended in a change of 
denomination. We should probably experience a similar difficulty if 
we knew equally well the current idiom of France or Italy in the 
seventh and eighth centuries. For when we compare the earliest 
English of the thirteenth century with the Anglo-Saxon of the 
twelfth, it seems hard to pronounce why it should pass for a separate 
language, rather than a modification or simplification of the former. 
We must conform, however, to usage, and say that the Anglo-Saxon 

'/ B 



2 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK rHallam. 

was converted into English : i. by contracting or otherwise modifying 
the pronunciation and orthography of woids 3 2. by omitting many 
inflections, especially of the noun, and consequently making more use 
of articles and auxiliaries; 3. by the introduction of French deri- 
vatives ; 4. by using less inversion and ellipsis, especially in poet.iy. 
Of these the second alone, I think, can be considered as sufficient to 
describe a new form of language ; and this was brought about so 
gradually that we are not relieved from much of our difficulty whether 
some compositions shall pass for the latest offspring of the mother or 
the earliest fruits of the daughter's fertility. 

The Anglo-Norman language is a phrase not quite so unobjectionable 
as the Anglo-Norman constitution ; and, as it is sure to deceive, we 
might better lay it aside altogether. In the one instance there was a 
real fusion of laws and government, to which we can find but a remote 
analogy, or rather none at all, in the other. It is probable, indeed, 
that the converse of foreigners might have something to do with those 
simplifications of the Anglo-Saxon grammar which appear about the 
reign of Henry II., more than a century after the Conquest ; though 
it is also true that languages of a very artificial structure, like that of 
England before that revolution, often became less complex in their 
forms, without any such violent process as an amalgamation of two 
different races. What is commonly called the Saxon Chronicle is 
continued to the death of Stephen in 1154, and in the same language, 
though with some loss of its purity. Besides the neglect of several 
grammatical rules, French words now and then obtrude themselves, 
but not very frequently, in the latter pages of this Chronicle. Peter- 
borough, however, was quite an English monastery 3 its endowments, 
its abbots, were Saxon ; and the political spirit the Chronicle breathes, 
in some passages, is that of the indignant subjects, servi ancor frementi, 
of the Norman usurpers. If its last compilers, therefore, gave way to 
some innovations of language, we may presume that these prevailed 
more extensively in places less secluded, and especially in London. 

We find evidence of a greater change in Layamon,* a translator of 
Wace's romance of Brutf from the French. Layamon's age is uncer- 
tain ; it must have been after n^^, when the original poem was com- 
pleted, and can hardly be placed below 1200. His language is 
accounted rather Anglo-Saxon than Enghsh; it retains most of the 



* Also called Laweman; describes himself as a priest residing at Ernley, near 
Radstone or Redstone, supposed to be Arley Regis or Lower Arley, near Bewdley, in 
Worcestershire, on the western bank of the Severn. 

t A Chronicle of Britain from the arrival of Brutus to the death of King Cad- 
walader in 689. 



Hallam.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 3 

distinguishing inflections of the mother-tongue, yet evidently differs 
considerably from that older than the Conquest by the introduction, or 
at least more frequent employment, of some new auxiliary forms, and 
displays very little of the characteristics of the ancient poetry, its 
periphrases, its ellipses, or its inversions. But though translation was 
the means by which words of French origin were afterwards most 
copiously introduced, very few occur in the extracts from Layamon 
hitherto published : for we have not yet the expected edition of the 
entire work.* He is not a mere translator, but improves much on 
Wace. The adoption of the plain and almost creeping style of the 
metrical French romance, instead of the impetuous dithyrambics of 
Saxon song, gives Layamon at first sight a greater affinity to the new 
English language than in mere grammatical structure he appears to 
bear. 

Layamon wrote in a village on the Severn 5 and it is agreeable to 
experience that an obsolete structure of language should be retained 
in a distant province, while it has undergone some change among the 
less rugged inhabitants of a capital. The disuse of Saxon forms crept 
on by degrees j some metrical lives of saints, apparently written not 
far from the year 12^0, may be deemed English 3 but the first speci- 
men of it that bears a precise date is a proclamation of Henry III., 
addressed to the people of Huntingdonshire in 1258, but doubtless 
circular throughout England. A triumphant song, composed probably 
in London, on the victory obtained at Lewes by the confederate 
barons in 1264, ^^^ ^^e capture of Richard Earl of Cornwall, is rather 
less obsolete in its style than this proclamation, as might naturally be 
expected. It could not have been written later than that year, because 
in the next the tables were turned on those who now exulted by the 
complete discomfiture of their party in the battle of Evesham. Several 
pieces of poetry, uncertain as to their precise date, must be referred to 
the latter part of this century. Robert of Gloucester, after the year 
1297, since he alludes to the canonisation of St. Louis, turned the 
chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth into English verse ; and, on com- 
paring him with Layamon, a native of nearly the same part of 
England, and a writer on the same subject, it will appear that a great 
quantity of French had flowed into the language since the loss of 
Normandy. The Anglo-Saxon inflections, terminations, and ortho- 
graphy had also undergone a very considerable change. That the 
intermixture of French words was very slightly owing to the Norman 



* This edition of Layamon^s entire work, edited for the Society of Antiquaries by 
Sir Frederick Madden, appeared in 1847. ^t contains two texts of the Brut, with a 
Literal Translation, Notes, and a Grammatical Glossary. 

B 2 



THE EVERY- DAY BOOK [Bulwer Lytton. 



Conquest will appear probable by observing at least as frequent an use 
of thera in the earliest specimens of the Scottish dialect, especially a 
song on the death of Alexander III. in 1285. There is a good deal 
of French in this, not borrowed, probably, from England, but directly 
from the original sources of imitation. — Introduction to the Literature 
of Eur ope i part i. chap i. §§ 49, 50. 



2.— RICCABOCCA ON REVOLUTION. 

[Lord Lytton, 1805. 

[Edward George Earle Bulwer Lytton, the distinguished author and statesman, 
youngest son of the late General Bulwer, was born in 1805. He was educated 
privately, and went to Trinity College, Cambridge. A baronefcy was conferred upon 
him July 18, 1838; and having in 1844 inherited the maternal estate of Knebworth, 
Sir Edward assumed the name of Lytton by Royal license; was first returned to the 
House of Commons in 1831 for St. Ives, represented Lincoln from 1832 to 1841, and 
the county of Hertford from 1852 to 1866. He filled the office of Colonial Secretary in 
Lord Derby's administration in 1858. His first publication was " Ismael," an 
Oriental tale, which appeared in 1825. "Falkland," his first novel, published 
anonymously, and " Pel ham ; or, the Adventures of a Gentleman," in 1827, have 
been followed by a series of fictions that have secured for their author an en iuring 
reputation. His first drama, "The Duchess de la Valli ere," performed at Covent 
Garden in 1837, did not meet with a very favourable reception; but "The Lady of 
Lyons," brought out at the same theafe anonymously (Feb. 13, 1838), proved the 
most successful of modern plays. Sir Edward took a very active part in the forma- 
tion of the Guild of Literature and Art, for which he wrote the comedy, " Not so Bad 
as we Seem," first performed privately before the Queen, &c.. May 16, 1851. 
It would be impossible in a short sketch to give even an idea of the numerous 
literary productions of this versatile and indefatigable author. Chambers ("Cyclopaedia 
of English Literature," vol. ii. p. 634,) says : " He is remarkable as having sought and 
obtained disrinction in almost every department of literature — in poetry, the drama, 
the historical romance, domestic novel, philosophical essay, and political disquisition. 
Like Cowley, too, he is remarkable as having appeared as an author, in a printed 
volume, in his fifteenth year." Sir Edward was created Lord Lytton in 1866.] 

Out of the Tinker's bag Leonard Fairfield had drawn a translation 
of Condorcet's " Progress of Man," and another of Rousseau's " Social 
Contract." Works so eloquent had induced him to select from the 
tracts in the Tinker's miscellany those which abounded most in pro- 
fessions of philanthropy, and predictions of some coming Golden Age, 
to which old Saturn's was a joke — tracts so mild and mother-like in 
their language, that it required a much more practical experience than 
Lenny's to perceive that you would have to pass a river of blood 
before you had the slightest chance of setting foot on the flowery 
banks on which they invited you to repose — tracts which rouged poor 
Christianity on the cheeks, clapped a crown of innocent daffodillies on 
her head, and set her to dancing a pas de zephyr in the pastoral ballet 



Bulwer Lytton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 5 

in which St. Simon pipes to the flock he shears ; or having tirst laid it 
down as a prehminary axiom that 

" The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces. 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself — 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve," 

substitQted in place thereof Monsieur Fourier's symmetrical pbalan- 
stere^ or Sir. Owen's architectural parallelogram."^ Ic was with some 
such tract that Lenny was seasoning his crusts and his radishes, 
when Riccabocca, bending his long dark face over the student's 
shoulder, said abruptly — 

" Diavolo, my friend ! what on earth have you got there ? Just let 
me look at it, will you r" 

Leonard rose respectfully, and coloured deeply as he surrendered the 
tract to Riccabocca. 

The wise man read the first page attentively, the second more 
cursorily, and only ran his eye over the rest. He had gone through 
too vast a range of problems pohtical, not to have passed ov^er tliat 
venerable Pons Asinorum of Socialism, on which Fouriers and St. 
Simons sit straddling, and cry aloud that they have arrived at the 
last boundary of knowledge ! 

"All this is as old as the hills," quoth Riccabocca irreverently j 
'' but the hills stand still, and this — there it goes !" and the sage, 
pointed to a cloud emitted from his pipe. "Did you ever read Sir 
David Brewster on Optical Delusions? No! Well, Lll lend it to 
you. YoQ will find therein a story of a lady who always saw a black 
cat on her hearth-rug. The black cat existed only in her fancy, 
but the hallucination was natural and reasonable — eh — what do you 
think." 

"Why, sir," said Leonard, not catching the Italian's meaning, "I 
don't exactly see that it was natural and reasonable." 

" Foolish boy, yes I because black cats are things possible and 
known. But who ever saw upon earth a community of men such as 
.sit on the hearth-rugs of Messrs. Owen and Fourier ■ If the lady's 
hallucination was not reasonable, what is his who believes in such 
visions as these ?" 

Leonard bit his lip. 



* Claude Henri, Comte de St. Simon, who was born at Paris Oct. 17, 1760, and 
died May 19, 1825; Charles Fourier, who was born at Besan^on .\pril 7, 177-2, and 
died at Paris Oct. 10, 1837 ; and Robert Owen, who was born at Newton, in Mont- 
gomer\-shire. May 14, 1771, and died Nov. 17, 185S, were notorious advocates of 
Communist or Social doctrines. Hence their disciples are called Saint Simonians, 
Foarierists, and Owenites. 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bulwer Lytton. 



"My dear boy/' cried Riccabocca kindly, "the only thing sure 
and tangible to which these writers would lead yoa, lies at the first 
step, and that is what is commonly called a Revolution. Now, 
I know what that is. I have gone, not indeed through a revolution, 
but an attempt at one." 

Leonard raised his eyes towards his master with a look of profound 
respect, and great curiosity. 

''•'Yes," added Riccabocca, and the face on which the boy gazed 
exchanged its usual grotesque and sardonic expression for one ani- 
mated, noble, and heroic. " Yes, not a revolution for chimeras, but 
for that cause which the coldest allow to be good, and which, when 
successful, all time approves as divine — the redemption of our native 
soil from the rule of the foreigner ! I have shared in such an attempt. 
And," continued the Italian, mournfully, "recalling now all the evil 
passions it arouses, all the ties it dissolves, all the blood that it com- 
m.ands to flow, all the healthful industry it arrests, all the madmen 
that it arms, all the victims that it dupes, 1 question whether one man 
really honest, pure, and humane, who has once gone through such an 
ordeal, would ever hazard it again, unless he was assured that the 
victory was certain — ay, and the object for which he fights not to be 
wrested from his hands amidst the uproar of the elements that the 
battle has released." 

The Italian paused, shaded his brow with his hand, and remained 
long silent. Then, gradually resuming his ordinary tone, he con- 
tinued — 

" Revolutions that have no definite objects made clear by the posi- 
tive experience of history ; revolutions, in a word, that aim less at 
substituting one law or one dynasty for another, than at changing the 
whole scheme of society, have been little attempted by real statesmen. 
Even Lycurgus is proved to be a myth who never existed. Such or- 
ganic changes are but in the day-dreams of philosophers who lived 
apart from the actual world, and whose opinions (though generally 
they were very benevolent, good sort of men, and wrote in an elegant 
poetical style) one would no more take on a plain matter of life, than 
one would look upon Virgil's ' Eclogues' as a faithful picture of the 
ordinary pains and pleasures of the peasants who tend our sheep. Read 
them as you would read poets, and they are delightful. But attempt 
to shape the world according to the poetry, and fit yourself for a 
madhouse. The farther off the age is from the realization of such 
projects, the more these poor philosophers have indulged them. Thus, 
it was amidst the saddest corruption of court manners that it became 
the fashion in Paris to sit for one's picture, with a crook in one's hand, 
as Alexis or Daphne. Just as liberty was fast dying out of Greece, 



Bulwer Lytton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 



and the successors of Alexander were founding their monarchies^ and 
Rome was growing up to crush in its iron grasp all states save its own, 
Plato withdraws his eyes from the world, to open them in his dreamy 
Atlantis.* Just in the grimmest period of English history, with the 
axe hanging over his head. Sir Thomas More gives you his ^ Utopia. 'f 
Just when the world is to be the theatre of a new Sesostris, the sages 
of France tell you that the age is too enlightened for war, that man is 
henceforth to be governed by pure reason, and live in a paradise. Very 
pretty reading all this to a man like me, Lenny, who can admire and 
smile at it. But to yon, to the man who has to work for his living, to 
the man who thinks it would be so much more pleasant to live at his 
ease in a phalanstere than to work eight or ten hours a-day ; to the 
man of talent, and action, and industry, whose future is invested in that 
tranquillity and order of a state in which talent, and action, and in- 
dustry are a certain capital ; why, Messrs. Coutts, the great bankers, 
had better encourage a theory to upset the system of banking ! What- 
ever disturbs society, yea, even by a causeless panic, much more by an 
actual struggle, falls first upon the market of labour, and thence affects 
prejudicially every department of intelligence. In such times the arts 
are arrested, literature is neglected, people are too busy to read any- 
thing save appeals to their passions. And capital, shaken in its sense 
of security, no longer ventures boldly through the land, calling forth 
z\\ the energies of toil and enterprise, and extending to every work- 
man his reward. Now, Lenny, take this piece of advice. You are 
young, clever, and aspiring: men rarely succeed in changing the 
world 3 but a man seldom fails of success if he lets the world alone, 
and resolves to make the best of it. You are in the midst of the great 



* Plato's idea of a perfect state is unfolded in the " Laws" and the " Republic." 
t This work, named from a king Utopus, written in Latin, was published at 
Louvain in 15 16. The first English edition, translated by Robynson, was published in 
London in 1551. Bishop Burnet's translation appeared in 1684. Hallam (Lit. 
Hist., part. i. ch. 4) says — " The ' Republic' of Plato no doubt furnished More with the 
germ of his perfect society ; but it would be unreasonable to deny him the merit of 
having struck out the fiction of its real existence from his own fertile imagination ; and 
it is manifest that some of his most distinguished successors in the same walk of ro- 
mance, especially Swift, were largely indebted to his reasoning as well as inventive 
talents. Those who read the ' Utopia' in Burnet's translation, may believe that they are 
in Brobdignag; so similar is the vein of satirical humour and easy language. If false 
and impracticable theories are found in the 'Utopia' (and, perhaps, he knew them to be 
such), this is in a much greater degree true of the Platonic republic." In a note to a later 
edition of his " Literary History," Hallam qualifies the assertion that More borrowed 
the germ of his " Utopia" from Plato, and says, " neither the ' Republic' nor the ' Laws' of 
Plato bear any resemblance to the * Utopia.' " Lord Bacon's treatise on the same sub- 
ject, "The New Atlantis, a Fragment," was published in 1635, and Swift's ** Gulliver's 
Travels" in 1726-7. 



8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Milman. 

crisis of your life j it is the struggle between the new desires know- 
ledge excites, and that sense of poverty, which those desires convert 
either into hope and emulation, or into envy and despair. I grant that 
it is an up-hill work that lies before you ; but don't you think it is 
always easier to climb a mountain than it is to level it ? These books 
call on you to level the mountain ; and that mountain is the property 
of other people, subdivided amongst a great many proprietors, and pro- 
tected by law. At the first stroke of the pickaxe it is ten to one but what 
you are taken up for a trespass. But the path up the mountain is a right 
of way uncontested. You may be safe at the summit, before (even if the 
owners are fools enough to let you) you could have levelled a yard. Cos- 
petto /" quoth the Doctor, *' it is more than two thousand years ago 
since poor Plato began to level it, and the mountain is as high as ever!" 
Thus saying, Riccabocca came to the end of his pipe, and stalking 
thoughtfully away, he left Leonard Fairfield trying to extract hght 
from the smoke. — My Novel ; or, Varieties in English Life, vol. i. book 
i. chap. 8. 



3.— GREAT ERA OF SCHOLASTICISM, 

[Dean Milman, 179T — 1868. 
[Henry Hart Milman, the youngest son of Sir Francis Milman, Bart., was born in 
London, Feb. 10, 1791. He was educated at Eton and Brasenose College, Oxford, 
and took orders in 1817. "Fazio," a tragedy, published in 1815, was performed 
at Covent Garden with success Feb. 5, 18 18. This was followed by other 
poetical works; and "The History of the Jews/' published anonymously in 
1829-30; "The History of Christianity, from the Birth of Christ to the Abolition 
of Paganism in the Roman Empire," appeared in 1840; and his great work, "The 
History of Latin Christianity, including that of the Popes to the Pontificate of 
Nicholas V.," in 1854-5. Mr. Milman was elected Professor of Poetry in the Uni- 
versity of Oxford in 1821, was Bampton Lecturer in 1827, was successively Vicar of 
St. Mary's, Reading (1827-35), and St. Margaret's, Westminster (1835-49); and 
was made Dean of St. Paul's in 1849. He died in Oct., 1868.] 

Now came the great age of the Schoolmen. Latin Christianity raised 
up those vast monuments of Theology which amaze and appal the 
mind with the enormous accumulation of intellectual industry, 
ingenuity, and toil, but of which the sole result to posterity is this 
barren amazement. The tomes of scholastic divinity may be com- 
pared with the pyramids of Egypt, which stand in that rude majesty 
which is commanding from the display of immense human power, 
yet oppressive from the sense of the waste of that power for no dis- 
coverable use. Whoever penetrates within finds himself bewildered 
and lost in a labyrinth of small, dark, intricate passages and chambers, 
devoid of grandeur, devoid of solemnity : he may wander without end 
and find nothing ! It was not, indeed, the enforced labour of a 



Milman.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 9 

slave population : it was rather voluntary slavery, submitting in its 
intellectual ambition and its religious patience to monastic discipline : 
it was the work of a small intellectual oligarchy, monks of necessity, 
in mind and habits 3 for it imperiously required absolute seclusion 
either in the monastery or in the university : a long life under monastic 
rule. No Schoolman could be a great man but as a Schoolman. 
William of Vekham alone was a powerful demagogue : scholastic even 
in his political writings, but still a demagogue. It is singular to see 
every kingdom in Latin Christendom, every order in the social State, 
furnishing the great men, not merely to the successive lines of Doctors, 
who assumed the splendid titles of the Angelical, the Seraphic, the 
Irrefragable, the most Profound, the most Subtle, the Invincible, even 
the Perspicuous, but even to what may be called the supreme 
Pentarchy of scholasticism. Italy sent Thomas of Aquino and 
Bonaventura 3 Germany, Albert the Great 5 the British Isles (the}^ 
boasted, also, of Alexander Hales and Bradwardine) Duns Scotus and 
William of Ockham J France alone must content hei self with names 
somewhat inferior (she had already given Abelard, Gilbert dela Poree, 
Amauri de Bene, and other famous or suspected names), now William 
of Auvergne, at a later time Darandus. Albert and Aquinas were of 
noble Houses, the Counts of Bollstadt and Aquino j Bonaventura of 
good parentage at Fidenza ; of Scotus, the birth was so obscure as to 
be untraceable 5 Ockham was of humble parents in the village of that 
name in Surrey. But France may boast that the University of Paris 
was the great scene of their studies, their labours, their instruction : 
the University of Paris was the acknowledged awarder of the fame 
and authority obtained by the highest Schoolmen. It is not less re- 
markable that the new mendicant orders sent forth these five Patriarchs 
in dignity of the science. Albert and Aquinas were Dominicans j 
Bonaventura, Duns Scotus, Ockham, Franciscans. It might have 
been supposed that the popularising of religious teaching, which was 
the express and avowed object of the Friar Preachers and of the 
Minorites, would have left the higher places of abstruse and learned 
Theology to the older Orders, or to the more dignified secular Eccle- 
siastics. Content with being the vigorous antagonists of heresy in all 
quarters, they would not aspire also to become the aristocracy of 
theologic erudition. Bu: the dominant religious impulse of the times 
could not but seize on all the fervent and powerful minds which 
sought satisfaction for their devout yearnings. No one who had 
strong religious ambition could be anything but a Dominican or a 
Franciscan ; to be less was to be below the highest standard. Hence, 
on one hand the Orders aspired to rule the Universities, contested the 
supremacy with all the great estabhshed authorities in the Schools j 



lo THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Mandeville. 

and having already drawn into their vortex almost all who united 
powerful abilities with devotional temperament, never wanted men 
who could enter into this dreary but highly rewarding service — men 
who could rule the Schools as others of their brethren had begun to rule 
the councils and the mind of Kings. It may be strange to contrast 
the popular simple preaching, for such must have been that of St. 
Dominic and St. Francis, such that of their followers, in order to con- 
tend with success against the plain and austere sermons of the heretics, 
with the '' Sum of Theology" of Aquinas, which of itself (audit is but 
one volume in the works of Thomas) would, as it might seem, occupy 
a whole life of the most secluded study to write, almost to read. The 
unlearned, unreasoning, only profoundly, passionately loving, and 
dreaming St. Francis, is still more oppugnant to the intensely subtle 
and dry Duns Scotus, at one time carried by his severe logic into 
Pelagianism ; or to William of Ockham, perhaps the hardest and 
severest intellectualist of all ; a political fanatic, not like his visionary 
brethren, who brooded over the Apocalypse and their own prophets, 
but for the Imperial against the Papal sovereignty. — History of Latin 
Cliristianity, including that of the Popes to the Pontificate of 
Nicholas VL, vol. vi. b. xix. ch. 3. 



4.— THE HOLY SEPULCHRE AT JERUSALEM. 

[Sir John Mandeville, 1300 — 1372. 

[Sir John Mandeville, or Maundeville, with vv^hom English prose literature is 
said to commence, was born at St. Alban's in 1300. He was educated for the 
medical pre fission, and having travelled in Eastern countries for thirty-four years, 
on his return published in Latin an account of his wanderings. This work was 
translated into the French language, in which two editions appeared in 1480. The 
first English edition was published in 1499. Sir John Mandeville died at Lie'ge 
Nov. 17, 1372.] 

When men come to Jerusalem, their first pilgrimage is to the church 
of the holy sepulchre, where our Lord was buried, which is without 
the city on the north side ; but it is now inclosed by the town wall. 
And there is a xerj fair church, round, and open above, and covered ' 
in its circuit with lead ; and on the west side is a fair and high tower 
for bells, strongly made ; and in the middle of the church is a taber- 
nacle, as it were a little house, made with a little low door j and that 
tabernacle is made in manner of half a compass, right curiously and 
richly made of gold and azure and other rich colours. And in the 
right side of that tabernacle is the sepulchre of our Lord ; and the 
tabernacle is eight feet long, and five wide, and eleven in height ; and 
it is not long since the sepulchre was all open, that men might kiss it 



Mandeville.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. ii 

and touch it. But because pilgrims that came thither laboured to 
break the stone in pieces or in powder, therefore the sultan has caused 
a wall to be made round the sepulchre, that no man may touch it. 
In the left side of the wall of the tabernacle, about the height of a 
man, is a great stone, the magnitude of a man's head, that was of the 
holy sepulchre ; and that stone the pilgrims that come thither kiss. In 
that tabernacle are no windows ; but it is all made light with lamps 
which hang before the sepulchre. And there is one lamp which 
hangs before the sepulchre which burns bright 5 and on Good Friday 
it goes out of itself, and lights again by itself at the hour that our 
Lord rose from the dead. Also, within the church, at the right side, 
near the choir of the church, is Mount Calvary, where our Lord was 
placed on the cross. It is a rock of a white colour, a little mixed 
with red ; and the cross was set in a mortise in the same rock ; and on 
that rock dropped the blood from the wounds of our Lord when he was 
punished on the cross ; and that is called Golgotha. And they go up 
to that Golgotha by steps 3 and in the place of that mortise Adam's 
head was found, after Noah's flood, in token that the sins of Adam 
should be redeemed in that same place. And upon that rock 
Abraham made sacrifice to our Lord. And there is an altar, before 
which He Godfrey de Boulogne and Baldwin, and other Christian 
kings of Jerusalem ; and near where our Lord was crucified is this 
written in Greek : " God our king before the worlds, hath wrought 
salvation in the midst of the earth." And also on the rock where the 
cross was set is written, within the rock, these words in Greek : 
*'What thou seest, is the ground of all the faith of this world." And 
you shall understand that when our Lord was placed on the cross he 
was thiny^-three years and three months old. Also, within Mount 
Calvary, on the right side, is an altar, where the pillar lieth to which 
our Lord Jesus was bound when he was scourged ; and there, besides, 
are four pillars of stone that always drop water ; and some men say 
that they \^"eep for our Lord's death. Near that altar is a place under 
earth, fort}"-tv,-o steps in depth, \^'here the holy cross was found by the 
wisdom of St. Helena, under a rock, where the Jews had hid it. And 
thus was the true cross assayed ; for they found three crosses, one of 
our Lord, and two of the two thieves 3 and St. Helena placed a dead 
body on them, which arose from death to life when it was laid on that 
on which our Lord died. And thereby, in the wall, is the place 
where the four nails of our Lord were hid ; for he had two in his 
hands and two in his feet. * * * * And in the midst of that church 
is a compass, in which Joseph of Arimathea laid the body of our 
Lord when he had taken him down from the cross j and there he 
washed the wounds of our Lord. And that compass, men say, is the 



12 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Mandeville. 

middle of the world.* And in the church of the sepulchre, on the 
north side, is the place where our Lord was put in prison (for he was 
in prison in many places) ; and there is a part of the chain with 
wliich he was bound j and there he appeared first to Mary Magdalene 
when he was risen, and she thought that he had been a gardener. 
In the church of St. Sepul'hre there were formerly canons of the 
order of St. Augustin, who had a prior, but the patriarch was their 
head. And outside the doors of the church, on the right side, as men 
go upward eighteen steps, is the spot where our Lord said to his 
mother, " Woman, behold thy son !" And, after that, he said to John 
his disciple, "Behold thy mother !"t And these words he said on 
the cross. And on these steps went our Lord when he bare the cross 
on his shoulder. And under these steps is a chapel 3 and in that 
chapel sing priests of India, not after our law, but after theirs j and 
they always make their sacrament of the altar, saying Pater noster, 
and other prayers therewiih, with which prayers they say the words 
that the sacrament is made of 3 for they know not the additions that 
many popes have made; but they sing with good devotion. And 
near there is the place where our Lord rested him when he was weary 
for bearing of the cross. Before the church of the sepulchre the city 
is weaker than in any other part, for the great plain that is between 
the church and the city. And towards the east side, without the 
walls of the city, is the vale of Jehoshaphat, which adjoins to the walls 
as though it were a large ditch. And over against that vale of 
Jehoshaphat, out of the city, is the church of St. Stephen, where he 
was stoned to death. And there besides is the golden gate, which may 
not be opened, by which gate our Lord entered on Palm Sunday, 
upon an ass 3 and the gate opened to him when he would go unto 
the temple 3 and the marks of the ass's feet are still seen in three 
places on the steps, which are of very hard stone. Before the church 
of St. Sepulchre, two hundred paces to the south, is the great hospital 
of St. John, of which the Hospitalers had their foundation. And 
within the palace of the sick men of that hospital are one hundred 
and twenty-four pillars of stone; and in the walls of the house, 
besides the number aforesaid, there are fifty-four pillars that support 
the house. From that hospital, going towards the east, is a very fair 
church, which is called Our Lady the Great; and after it there is 
another church, very near, called Our Lady the Latin 3 and there 
stood Mary Cleophas and Mary Magdalene, and tore their hair, when 
our Lord was executed on the cross. 



* Jerusalein was supposed to be the centre of the world, and is thus depicted in most 
mediaeval maps. I'his belief was founded on a literal translation of Psalm Ixxiv. 12. 

t John xix. 26. 



Coleridge.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 13 

5.— THE IMPORTANCE OF METHOD. 

[S. T. Coleridge, 1772 — 1834. 

[Samuel Taylor Coleridge, born at Ottery-St.-Mary, in Devonsliire, Oct. 21, 17-2, 
was educated at Ciirist's Hospital, and Jesus College, Cambridge. He left the 
University without completing the usual course, and in 1794 published his first 
work, a small volume of poems. This was followed by other productions of the 
kind, the most popular of which are, "The Ancient Mariner," " Christabcl," and 
" Love, or Genevieve." His poetical works were first collected and published in 
three volumes, in 1828. Coleridge was the author of several essays and critical 
works, amongst which may be mentioned "The PViend," a weekly paj^er, com- 
menced June I, 1809, and terminating March 15, 1810, of which several editions 
have appeared; "Lay Sermons," published in 1816; " Biographia Literaria; or. 
Biographical Sketches of my Life and Opinions," published in 1817; and "Notes 
and Lectures upon Shakespeare and some of the Old Poets and Dramatists," edited 
by his daughter, and published in 1849. ^"^ 1818, he wrote a " Dissertation on 
the Science of Method," which forms the " Introduction to the Encyclopaedia 
Metropolitana." Coleridge died at Highgate, near London, July 25, 1834. " Early 
Recollections of Coleridge," by J. Cottle, appeared in 1837; ^^^ his "Life," by J. 
Gillman, in 1838.] 

And as to the general importance of Method ; — what need have we 
to dilate on this fertile topic ? for it is not solely in the formation of 
the Human Understanding, and in the constructions of Science and 
Literature^ that the employment of Method is indispensably neces- 
sary J but its importance is equally felt, and equally acknowledged, in 
the whole business and economy of active and domestic life. From 
the cottager's hearth or the workshop of the artisan, to the Palace or 
the Arsenal, the first merit, that which admits neither substitute nor 
equivalent, is that everything is in its place. Where this charm is 
wanting, every other merit either loses its name, or becomes an addi- 
tional ground of accusation and regret. Of one, by whom it is 
eminently possessed, we say proverbially, that he is like clockwork. 
The resemblance extends beyond the point of regularity, and yet falls 
short of the truth. Both do, indeed, at once divide and announce the 
silent and otherwise indistinguishable lapse ot time ; but the man of 
Methodical industry and honourable pursuits, does more ; he realizes 
its ideal divisions, and gives a character and individuality to its 
moments. If the idle are described as killing time, he may be justly 
said to call it into life and moral being, while he makes it the distinct 
object not only of the consciousness, but of the conscience. He 
organizes the hours, and gives them a soul : and to that, the very 
essence of which is to fleet, and to have been, he communicates an 
imperishable and a spiritual nature. Of the good and faithful servant, 
whose energies, thus directed, are thus methodized, it is less truly 
aflfirmed, that he lives in Time, than that Time lives in him. His 
days, months, and years, as the stops and punctual marks in the 



14 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pope. 

records of duties performed^, will survive the wreck of worlds, and 
remain extant when Time itself shall be no more. 

Let us carry our views a step higher. What is it that first strikes 
us, and strikes us at once in a man of education, and which, among 
educated men, so instantly distinguishes the man of superior Mind ? 
Not always the weight or novelty of his remarks, nor always the 
interest of the facts which he communicates ; for the subject of con- 
versation may chance to be trivial, and its duration to be short. Still 
less can any just admiration arise from any peculiarity in his words 
. and phrases ; for every man of practical good sense will follow, as far 
as the matters under consideration will permit him, that golden rule 
of Caesar — Insolens verhum, tanquam scopulum,, evitare. The true 
cause of the impression made on us is, that his mind is methodical. 
We perceive this in the unpremeditated and evidently habitual arrange- 
ment of his words, flowing spontaneously and necessarily from the 
clearness of the leading Idea ; from which distinctness of mental 
vision, when men are fully accustomed to it, they obtain a habit of 
foreseeing at the beginning of every instance how it is to end, and 
how all its parts may be brought out in the best and most orderly 
succession. However irregular and desultory the conversation may 
happen to be, there is Method in the fragments. 

Let us once more take an example which must come " home to 
every man's business and bosom." Is there not a Method in the 
discharge of all our relative duties ? And is not he the truly virtuous 
and truly happy man, who seizing first and laying hold most firmly 
of the great first Truth, is guided by that divine light through all the 
meandring and stormy courses of his existence ? To him every 
relation of life affords a prolific Idea of dutyj by pursuing which into 
all its practical consequences, he becomes a good servant or a good 
master, a good subject or a good sovereign, a good son or a good 
father j a good friend, a good patriot, a good Christian, a good man ! 
— A Dissertation on the Science of Method ; or, the Laws and Regu- 
lative Principles of Education, § 2. 



6.— SELF-LOVE AND REASON. 

[Pope, 1688— 1744. 
{^Alexander Pope was born in London, May 21, 1688. His father, who had amassed 
a fortune in business as a linen-draper, being a Roman Catholic, placed him, when 
eight years of age, under the care of a priest. The young poet then went to a school 
at Twyford, afterwards to another in London, and, being delicate, spent much of his 
time in, reading. His " Pastorals" were composed in 1704, and published in 1709* 
in which year he wrote the " Essay on Criticism," of which the first edition appeared 
in 171 1. "The Rape of the Lock," and " Windsor Forest," were published in 17 13. 



Pope.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. ig 

Pope issued proposals for the translation of the "Iliad" in 1713, and it appeared at 
intervals between 17 15 and 1720. He published a collected edition of his poetical 
works in 1 7 18, and the translation of the "Odyssey," in 1725. His edition of 
Shakespeare appeared in 1725, the " Dunciad" in May, 1728, and the " Essay on 
Man" in 1733. Several other works followed, and Pope died May 30, 1744. A 
collected edition of his works, edited by Warburton, was published in nine volumes, 
between 1751 — 1760. Pope has numerous biographers. His Life, by W. Ayre, 
appeared in 1745; by W. H. Dilworth, in 1759; by Owen Ruffhead, in 1769; by 
Joseph Warton, in 1797; and by W. L. Bowles, in 1806. A good account of Pope 
is given in Dr. Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," first published 1779 — 81.] 

Two principles in human nature reign ; 
Self-love, to urge, and reason, to restrain ; 
Nor this a good, nor that a bad vice call. 
Each marks its end, to move or govern all ; 
And to their proper operation still. 
Ascribe all good ; to their improper, ill. 
Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul ; 
Reason's comparing balance rales the whole. 
Man, but for that, no action could attend. 
And, but for this, were active to no end : 
Fix'd hke a plant on his peculiar spot. 
To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot ; 
Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the road. 
Destroying others, by himself destroy' d. 
Most strength the moving principle requires : 
Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. 
Sedate and quiet, the comparing lies, 
Form'd but to check, deliberate, and advise. 
Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh ; 
Reason's at distance, and in prospect lie : 
That sees immediate good by present sense ; 
Reason, the future and the consequence. 
Thicker than arguments, temptations throng, 
At lust more watchful this, but that more strong. 
The action of the stronger to suspend 
Reason still use, to reason still attend. 
Attention, habit and experience gains 5 
Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. 
Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to light 
More studious to divide than to unite 5 
And grace and virtue, sense and reason split. 
With all the rash dexterity of wit. 
Wits, just like fools, at war about a name. 
Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pope. 



Self-love and reason to one end aspire. 

Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire -, 

But greedy That its object would devour. 

This taste the honey, and not wound the flower : 

Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood. 

Our greatest evil or our greatest good. 

Modes of self-love the passions we may call ; 

'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all : 

But since not every good we can divide. 

And reason bids us for our own provide : 

Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair. 

List under Reason, and deserve her care ; 

Those, that imparted, court a nobler aim. 

Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name. 

In lazy apathy let stoics boast 

Their virtue fix'd 5 'tis fix'd as in a frost ; 

Contracted all, retiring to the breast ; 

But strength of mind is exercise, not rest : 

The rising tempest puts in act the soul. 

Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. 

On hfe's "^ast ocean diversely we sail, 

Reason the card, but passion is the gale ; 

Nor God alone, in the still calm we find. 

He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind. 

Passions like elements, though born to fight. 

Yet, mix'd and soften'd, in his work unite : 

These, 'tis enough to temper and employ 3 

But what composes man, can man destroy. 

Suffice that reason keep to nature's road. 

Subject, compound them, follow her and God. 

Love, hope, and joy, fair pleasure's smiling train. 

Hate, fear, and grief, the family of pain, 

These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confined. 

Make and maintain the balance of the mind j 

The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife. 

Gives all the strength and colour of our life. 

Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes ; 

And when, in act they cease, in prospect, rise : 

Present to grasp, and future still to find. 

The whole employ of body and of mind. 

All spread their charms, but charm not all alike. 

On different senses different objects strike 3 



Jeremy Taylor.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 17 

Hence different passions more or less inflame. 
As strong or weak, the organs of the frame ; 
And hence one Master Passion in the breast. 
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. 

— Jn Essay on Man : in Four Epistles. — §§ i., ii., and iii. 



7.— OF CONTENTEDNESS IN ALL ESTATES AND ACCIDENTS. 

[Bp, Jeremy Taylor, 1613 — 1667. 

[This distinguished divine, called by Jeffrey "the most Shakspearian of our great 
divines," was born at Cambridge, August 15, 1613. Though his father followed the 
humble calling of a barber, the family was of good descent; and one of his ancestors. 
Dr. Rowland Taylor, suffered martyrdom in the reign of Queen Mary. Jeremy Taylor 
was educated at the grammar-school and university of his native place, and having 
attracted the attention of Laud, became his chaplain. Having been afterwards ap- 
pointed chaplain to Charles I., he followed the Royal fortunes during the Civil war, 
and was several times imprisoned. His " Liberty of Prophesying" appeared in 1647 ; 
"The Life of Christ, or the Great Exemplar of Sanctity," in 1649 ; the " Rule and 
Exercises of Holy Living and Dying," in 1 650-1 ; and the " Ductor Dubitantium ; or, 
the Rule of Conscience in all her General Measures," was published in 1660. He also 
wrote a variety of sermons and treatises. Several collected editions of Taylor's works 
have been issued. During the Commonwealth he resided first in Wales, where he 
kept a school, and afterwards in Ireland. At the Restoration he was appointed to 
the bishopric of Down and Connor, to which he was consecrated in January, 1661. 
Hallam says he is " the greatest ornament of the English pulpit up to the middle of 
the seventeenth century ; and we have no reason to believe — or rather, much reason 
to disbelieve — that he had any competitor in other languages." Jeremy Taylor died 
at Lisburn, August 13, 1667. His "Life," by J. Wheeldon, appeared in 1793; by 
H. K. Bonney, in 1815 ; by Bishop Heber, in 1824; and by the Rev. R. A. Willmott, 
in 1847.] 

Virtues and discourses are like friends necessary in all fortunes -, but 
those are the best which are friends in our sadnesses, and support us in 
our sorrows and sad accidents ; and in this sense no man that is vir- 
tuous can be friendless ; nor hath any man reason to complain of the 
Divine Providence, or accuse the public disorder of things, or his own 
infelicity, since God hath appointed one remedy for all the evils in the 
world, and that is a contented spirit. For this alone makes a man pass 
through fire and not be scorched, through seas and not to be 
drowned, through hunger and nakedness and want nothing. For since 
all the evil in the world consists in the disagreeing between the object 
and the appetite, as when a man hath what he desires not, or desires 
what he hath not, or desires amiss ; he that composes his spirit to the 
present accident hath variety of instances for his virtues, but none to 
trouble him, because his desires enlarge not beyond his present fortune ; 

c 



i8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Jeremy Taylor. 

and a wise man is placed in the variety of chances, like the nave 
or centre of a wheel in the midst of all the circumvolutions and 
changes of posture^, without violence or change, save that it turns gently 
in compliance with its changed parts, and is indifferent which part is 
up and which is down ; for there is some virtue or other to be exer- 
cised whatever happens, either patience or thanksgiving, love or fear, 
moderation or humility, charity or contentedness, and they are every 
one of them equal in order to his great end and immortal felicity ; and 
beauty is not made by white or red, by black eyes and a round face, 
by a straight body and a smooth skin, but by a proportion to the 
fancy. No rules can make amiability — our minds and apprehensions 
make that ; and so is our felicity : and we may be reconciled to poverty 
and a low fortune if we suffer contentedness and the grace of God to 
make the proportion. For no man is poor that does not think him- 
self so. But if in a full fortune with impatience he desires more, he 
proclaims his wants and his beggarly condition. But because this 
grace of contentedness was the sum of all the old moral philosophy 
and great duty in Christianity, and of most universal use in the whole 
course of our lives, and the only instrument to ease the burthen of the 
world and the enmities of sad chances, it will not be amiss to press it 
by the proper arguments by which God hath bound it upon our spirit, 
it bemg fastened by reason and religion, by duty and interest, by ne- 
cessity and conveniency, by example, and by the proposition of ex- 
cellent rewards, no less than peace and felicity. 

I. Contentedness in all its estimates is a duty of religion ; it is the 
great reasonableness of complying with the Divine Providence which 
governs all the world, and hath so ordered us in the administration of 
his great family. He were a strange fool that should be angry because 
dogs and sheep need no shoes, and yet himself is full of care to get 
some. God hath supplied those needs to them by natural provisions, 
and to thee by an artificial ; for he hath given thee reason to learn a 
trade, or some means to make or buy them, so that it only differs in 
the manner of our provision — and which had you rather want, shoes 
or reason ? And my patron that hath given me a farm is freer to me 
than if he gives me a loaf ready baked. But, however, all these gifts 
come from him, and therefore it is fit that he should dispense them as 
he pleases 3 and if we murmur here, we may at the next melancholy 
be troubled that God did not make us to be angels or stars. For if 
that which we are to have do not content us, we may be troubled 
for everything in the worlds which is besides our being or our 
possessions. 

God is the master of the scenes 3 we must not choose which part we 
f hall act 3 it concerns us only to be careful that we do it well, always 



I 



Jeremy Taylor.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 19 

saying. If this please God let it he as it is; and we who pray that God's 
will may be done on earth as it is in heaven, must remember that the 
angels do whatsoever is commanded them, and go wherever they are 
sent, and refuse no circumstances ; and if their employment be crossed 
by a higher degree, they sit down in peace and rejoice in the event ; 
and when the angel of Jadea* could not prevail in behalf of the 
people committed to his charge, because the angel of Persia opposed 
it ; he only told the story at the command of God, and was as con- 
tent, and worshipped with as great an ecstasy in his proportion as the 
prevailing spirit. Do thou so likewise ; keep the station where God 
hath placed you, and you shall never long for things without, but sit at 
home feasting upon the Divine Providence and thy own reason, by which 
we are taught that it is necessary and reasonable to submit to God. 

For is not all the world God's family ? Are not we his creatures ? 
Are we not as clay in the hand of the potter ? Do we not live upon 
his meat, and move by his strength, and do our work by his light ? 
Are we anything but what we are from him ? And shall there be a 
mutiny among the flocks and herds, because their Lord or their 
Shepherd chooses their pastures, and suffers them not to wander into 
the deserts and unknown ways ? If we choose, we do it so foolishly 
that we cannot like it long, and most commonly not at all ; but God, 
who can do what he pleases, is wise to choose safely for us, affec- 
tionate to comply with our needs, and powerful to execute all his wise 
decrees. Here, therefore, is the wisdom of the contented man, to let 
God choose for him ; for when we have given up our wills to Him, 
and stand in that station of the battle where our Great General hath 
placed us, our spirits must needs rest, while our conditions have for 
their security the power, the wisdom, and the charity of God. 

2. Contentedness in all accidents brings great peace of spirit, and is 
the great and only instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the 
sting from the accident, and makes a man not to depend upon the 
chance and the uncertain disposition of men for his well-being, but 
only on God and his own spirit. We ourselves make our fortunes 
good or bad, and when God lets loose a tyrant upon us, or a sickness, 
or scorn, or a lessened fortune, if we fear to die, or know not to be 
patient, or be proud, or covetous, then the calamity sits heavy on us. 
But if we know how to manage a noble principle, and fear no death 
so much as a dishonest action, and think impatience a worse evil than 
a fever, and pride to be the biggest disgrace, and poverty to be in- 
finitely desirable before the torments of covetousness ; then we who 
now think vice to be so easy, and make it so familiar, and think the 



Daniel x. 13. 
C 2 



20 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK. [Jeremy Taylor. 

cure so impossible, shall quickly be of another mind_, and reckon these 
accidents amongst things eligible. 

But no man can be happy that hath great hopes and great fears of 
things without, and events depending upon other men, or upon the 
chances of fortune. The rewards of virtue are certain, and our pro- 
visions for our natural support are certain, or if we want meat till we 
die then we die of that disease, and there are many worse than to die 
with an atrophy or consumption, or unapt and coarser nourishment. 
But he that suffers a transporting passion concerning things within the 
power of others, is free from sorrow and amazement no longer than 
his enemy shall give him leave, and it is ten to one but he shall be 
smitten then and there where it shall most trouble him ; for so the 
adder teaches us where to strike by her curious and fearful defending 
of her head. The old Stoicks, when you told them of a sad story, 
would still am: wer — What is that to me? Yes, for the tyrant hath 
sentenced you also unto prison. Well, what is that ? He will put a 
chain upon my leg, but he cannot bind my soul. No ; but he will 
kill you. Then I'll die. If presently, let me go, that I may pre- 
sently be freer than himself 3 but if not till anon or to-morrow, I will 
dine first, or sleep, or do what reason and nature calls for, as at other 
times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the same with the discourse of 
St. Paul : / have learned in whatsoever state I am therewith to le 
content. I know both how to he abased and I know how to abound ; 
everywhere and in all things I am instructed both how to be full and to be 
hungry, both to abound and suffer need. 

We are in the world like men playing at tables ; the chance is not 
in our power, but to play it is ; and when it is fallen we must manage 
it as we can, and let nothing trouble us but when we do a base action, 
or speak like a fool, or think wickedly. These things God hath put 
into our powers ; but concerning those things which are wholly in the 
choice of another they cannot fall under our deliberation, and there- 
fore neither are they fit for our passions. My fear may make me 
miserable, but it cannot prevent what another hath in his power and 
purpose ; and prosperities can only be enjoyed by them who fear not 
at all to lose them, since the amazement and passion concerning the 
future takes off^all the pleasure of the present possession. Therefore, 
if thou hast lost thy land, do not also lose thy constancy ; and if thou 
must die a little sooner, yet do not die impatiently. For no chance is 
evil to him that is content, and to a man nothing is miserable unless it be 
unreasonable. No man can make another man to be his slave unless 
he hath first enslaved himself to life and death. No pleasure or pain, 
to hope or fear : command these passions, and you are freer than the 
Parthian kings. — The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living, ch. ii. § 6. 



Isaac Disraeli.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 



8.— THE PHILOSOPHY OF PROVERBS. 

[Isaac Disraeli, i 766-1848. 

[Isaac Disraeli, descended from a Jewish family, of Spanish origin, that settled in 
England in 1748, was born at Enfield in May, 1766. His father destined him for a 
commercial life, to which he showed a decided aversion, and he was sent to travel in 
France in 1788. His first publications were in poetry and romance, and in 1791 he 
published anonymously a small volume, entitled " Curiosities of Literature." The 
second volume appeared in 1792, and the third in 1817. The Second Series was 
published in. 1823; and the two series, complete in six vols., in 1845. "Literary 
Miscellanies" appeared in 1801, "Calamities of Authors" in 181 2, "Quarrels of 
Authors" in 1814, " The Amenities of Literature" in 1841, and "The Life and Reign 
of Charles the First," in 1828-31. Several other works proceeded from the pen of 
this indefatigable author, who was, in the words of his son (Memoir prefixed to 
Works, page 31), "a complete literary character, a man who really passed his life in 
his library. Even marriage produced no change in these habits ; he rose to enter the 
chamber where he lived alone with his books, and at night his lamp was ever lit 
within the same walls." Isaac Disraeli died January 19, 1848.] 

In antique furniture we sometimes discover a convenience which long 
disuse had made us unacquainted with, and are surprised by the 
aptness which we did not suspect was concealed in its solid forms. 
We have found the labour of the workmen to have been as admirable 
as the material itself, which is still resisting the mouldering touch of 
time among those modern inventions,, elegant and unsubstantial, which, 
often put together with unseasoned wood, are apt to warp and fly into 
pieces when brought into use. We have found how strength consists 
in the selection of materials, and that, whenever the substitute is not 
better than the original, we are losing something in that test of 
experience, which all things derive from duration. 

Be this as it may ! I shall not unreasonably await for the artists of 
our novelties to retrograde into massive greatness, although I cannot 
avoid reminding them how often they revive the forgotten things of 
past times ! It is well known that many of our novelties were in use 
by our ancestors ! In the history of the human mind there is, indeed, 
a sort of antique furniture which I collect, not merely for their anti- 
quity, but for the sound condition in which I still find them, and the 
compactness which they still show. Centuries have not worm-eaten 
their solidity ! and the utility and delightfulness which they still afford 
make them look as fresh and as ingenious as any of our patent 
inventions. 

By the title of the present article the reader has anticipated the 
nature of the old furniture to which I allude. I propose to give what, 
in the style of our times, may be called the Philosophy of Proverbs — a 
topic which seems virgin. The art of reading proverbs has not, 
indeed, always been acquired even by some of their admirers ; but my 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Isaac Disraeli. 



observations, like their subject, must be versatile and unconnected ; 
and I must bespeak indulgence for an attempt to illustrate a very 
curious branch of literature, rather not understood than quite forgotten. 

Proverbs have long been in disuse. ^^ A man of fashion," observes 
Lord Chesterfield, "never has recourse to proverbs and vulgar 
aphorisms 3" and, since the time his lordship so solemnly interdicted 
their use, they appear to have vt^ithered away under the ban of his 
anathema. His lordship was little conversant with the history of 
proverbs, and would unquestionably have smiled on those '^ men of 
fashion" of another stamp, who, in the days of Elizabeth, James, and 
Charles, were great collectors of them 3 would appeal to them in their 
conversations, and enforce them in their learned or their statesmanlike 
correspondence. Few, perhaps, even now, suspect that these neglected 
fragments of wisdom, which exist among all nations, still offer many 
interesting objects for the studies of the philosopher and the historian 3 
and for men of the world still open an extensive school of human life 
and manners. 

The home-spun adages, and the rusty " sayed-saws," which remain 
in the mouths of the people, are adapted to their capacities and their 
humours. Easily remembered, and readily applied, these are the 
philosophy of the vulgar, and often more sound than that of their 
masters ! whoever would learn what the people think, and how they 
feel, must not reject even these as insignificant. The proverbs of the 
street and of the market, true to nature, and lasting only because they 
are true, are records that the populace at Athens and at Rome were 
the same people as at Paris and at London, and as they had before 
been in the city of Jerusalem ! 

Proverbs existed before books. The Spaniards date the origin of 
their refranes que dicen las viejas tras el J'uego, " sayings of old wives 
by their firesides," before the existence of any writings in their lan- 
guage, from the circumstance that these are in the old romance or 
rudest vulgar idiom. The most ancient poem in the Edda, '' the 
sublime speech of Odin," abounds with ancient proverbs, strikingly 
descriptive of the ancient Scandinavians. Undoubtedly proverbs in 
the earliest ages long served as the unwritten language of morality, and 
even of the useful arts ; like the oral traditions of the Jews, they floated 
down from age to age on the lips of successive generations. The name 
of the first sage who sanctioned the saying would in time be forgotten, 
while the opinion, the metaphor, or the expression, remained, conse- 
crated into a proverb ! Such was the origin of those memorable 
sentences by which men learnt to think and to speak appositely ; they 
were precepts which no man could contradict, at a time when 
authority was valued more than opinion, and experience preferred to 



Isaac Disraeli.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 23 

novelty. The proverbs of a father became the inheritance of a son ; 
the mistress of a family perpetuated hers through her household ; the 
workman condensed some traditional secret of his craft into a prover- 
bial expression. When countries are not yet populous, and property 
has not yet produced great inequalities in its ranks, every day will show 
them how "the drunkard and the glutton come to poverty, and 
drowsiness clothes a man with rags." At such a period he who gave 
counsel gave wealth. * * * -^ 

Some difficulty has occurred in the definition. Proverbs must be 
distinguished from proverbial phrases, and from sententious maxims ; 
but as proverbs have many faces, from their miscellaneous nature, the 
class itself scarcely admits of any definition. When Johnson defined 
a proverb to be " a short sentence frequently repeated by the people," 
this definition would not include the most curious ones, which have 
not always circulated among the populace, nor even belong to them j 
nor does it designate the vital qualities of a proverb. The pithy 
quaintness of old Howell has admirably described the ingredients of an 
exquisite proverb to be sense, shortness, and salt. A proverb is distin- 
guished from a maxim or an apophthegm by that brevity which 
condenses a thought or a metaphor, where one thing is said and 
another is to be applied. This often produces wit, and that quick 
pungency which excites surprise, but strikes with conviction ; this gives 
it an epigrammatic turn. George Herbert entitled the small collection 
which he formed '^ Jacula Prudentium," Darts or Javelins ! something 
hurled and striking deeply 3 a characteristic of a proverb which possibly 
Herbert may have borrowed from a remarkable passage in Plato's 
dialogue of ''^ Protagoras or the Sophists." * ■^" -^^ •* 

Proverbs have ceased to be studied or employed in conversation 
since the time we have derived our knowledge from books ; but in a 
philosophical age they appear to offer infinite subjects for speculative 
curiosity. Originating in various eras, these memorials of manners, of 
events, and of modes of thinking, for historical as well as for moral 
purposes, still retain a strong hold on our attention. The collected 
knowledge of successive ages, and of different people, must always 
enter into some part of our own ! Truth and nature can never be 
obsolete. 

Proverbs embrace the wide sphere of human existence, they take all 
the colours of life, they are often exquisite strokes of genius, they 
delight by their airy sarcasm or their caustic satire, the luxuriance of 
their humour, the playfulness of their turn, and even by the elegance 
of their imagery, and the tenderness of their sentiment. They give a 
deep insight into domestic life, and open for us the heart of man, in all 
the various states which he may occupy — a frequent review of proverbs 



24 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Andersen. 

should enter into our readings ; and although they are no longer the 
ornaments of conversation, they have not ceased to be the treasuries 
of Thought ! — Curiosities of Literature, vol. iii.. The Philosophy oj 
Proverbs. 



9.— THE DROP OF WATER. 

[Hans C. Andersen, 1805. 

[Hans Christian Andersen was born at Odense, in Fiinen, April 2, 1805. His 
parents were too poor to give him a better education than that afforded by the 
charity school of his native place. Interest was exerted in his behalf, and he was 
sent to one of the Government gymnasia, and thence proceeded to college. Funds 
were provided to enable him to travel. In 1844, Andersen was invited to the Danish 
Court, and in 1845 ^^ annuity was granted to him. His first publication, "A 
Journey on Foot to Amager," appeared in September, 1828. A collected edition of 
his poetical and prose works was published at Leipsic in 1847, ^"^ 35 volumes. 
Andersen's works have been translated into most modern languages, and are very 
popular in England.] 

Surely you know what a microscope is — that wonderful glass which 
makes everything appear a hundred times larger than it really is. If 
you look through a microscope at a single drop of ditch-water, you 
will perceive more than a thousand strange-shaped creatures, such as 
yoQ never could imagine, dwelling in the water. It looks not unlike 
a plateful of shrimps, all jumping and crowding upon each other j 
and so ferocious are these little creatures, that they will tear oiF each 
other's arms and legs without mercy 3 and yet they are happy and 
merry after this fashion. Now, there was once an old man, whom all 
his neighbours called Cribbley Crabbley — a curious name to be sure ! 
He always liked to make the best of everything, and when he could 
not manage it otherwise he tried magic. So one day he sat with his 
microscope held up to his eye, looking at a drop of ditch-water. Oh, 
what a strange sight was that ! All the thousand little imps in the 
water were jumping and springing about, devouring each other, or 
pulling each other to pieces. 

" Upon my word, this is too horrible!" quoth old Cribbley Crab- 
bley ; " there must surely be some means of making them live in 
peace and quiet." And he thought and thought, but still could not 
hit on the right expedient. "I must give them a colour," he said, at 
last, "then I shall be able to see them more distinctly 3" and ac- 
cordingly he let fall into the water a tiny drop of something that 
looked like red wine, but in reality it was witches' blood 3 whereupon ' 
all the strange little creatures immediately became red all over, not 
unlike the Red Indians 3 the drop of water now seemed a whole 
townful of naked wild men. 



Gibbon.] OF .MODERN LITERATURE. 25 

"What have you there r" inquired another old magician^ who had 
no name at all^ which made him more remarkable even than Cribbley 
Crabbley. 

"Well^ if you can guess what it is," replied Cribbley Crabbley, '' 1 
will give it youj but I warn you, you'll not lind it out so easily." 

And the magician without a name looked through the microscope. 
The scene now revealed to his eyes actually resembled a town where 
all the inhabitants were running about without clothing ; it was a 
horrible sight ! But still more horrible was it to see how they kicked 
and cuffed^ struggled and fought, pulled and bit each other. All those 
that were lowest must needs strive to get uppermost, and all those 
that were highest must be thrust down. '" Look, look !" they seemed 
to be crying out, " his leg is longer than mine ; pah ! off with it ! 
And there is one who has a little lump behind his ear — an innocent 
little lump enough, but it pains him^ and it shall pain him more." 
And they hacked at it, and seized hold of him and devoured him, 
merely because of this little lump. Only one of the creatures was 
quiet, very quiet, and still ; it sat by itself, like a little modest damsel, 
wishing for nothing but peace and rest. But the others would not 
have it so 3 they pulled the little damsel forward, cutfed her, cut at 
her, and ate her. 

"This is most uncommonly amusing," remarked the nameless 
magician. 

"Do you think so ? Well, but what is it?" asked Cribbley Crab- 
bley. " Can you guess, or can you not ? — that's the question." 

"To be sure I can guess," was the reply of the nameless magician, 
'''easy enough. It is either Copenhagen or some other large city 3 
I don't know which, for they are all alike. It is some large city." 

"It is a drop of ditch-water !" said Cribbley Crabbley. — Danish 
Fairy Legends and Tales {translated hy Caroline Peachey). 



10.— ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTRY. 

[Gibbon, 1737-1794. 

[Edward Gibbox was born at Putney, near London, April 27 (O.S.), 1737. Though 
he spent a few months at Westminster School, and at Magdalen College, Oxford, 
his early education was neglected. Having shown an inclination to join the 
Roman Catholic Church, his father sent him, in 1753, to Lausanne, where, under 
the care of M. Pavilliard, a Swiss theologian, he was induced to renounce this 
intention. In Switzerland, Gibbon formed«a romantic attachment for Susanne 
Curchod, who was afterwards married to Neckar. He returned to England in May, 
1758, and published his first work in French, under the title of " Essai sur 
I'Etude de la Litte'rature," in 1761. Between 1763 and 1765 he travelled in France, 
Switzerland, and Italy, and it was at Rome, in 1764, that he first formed the idea 



26 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Gibbon. 

of writing the decline and fall of the city. On his return to England in June, 
1765, he commenced the work, and the first volume was published in 1776, and 
the sixth and last in 1788. Gibbon entered Parliament as member for Liskeard in 
1774, was appointed one of the Lords Commissioners of Trade in July, 1779, '^"^ 
held the office until it was abolished in 1782. In 1783, he settled at Lausanne, 
where he purchased a house on the shore of Lake Leman. Having returned to 
England in 1793, he died in London January 16, 1794. Several editions of Gibbon's 
History have been published. The best, by Dr. Smith, embodying the notes of Dean 
Milman and M. Guizot, was published by Murray, in 8 vols., 1854-5. This 
great work has been translated into most modern languages. Gibbon's " Auto- 
biography," said to be the best in the language, was published by Lord Sheffield 
in 1799.] 

A LIVELY desire of knowing and of recording our ancestors so 
generally prevails, that it must depend on influence of some common 
principle in the minds of men ; we, seem to have lived in the persons 
of our forefathers ; it is the labour and reward of vanity to extend the 
term of this ideal longevity. Our imagination is always active to en- 
large the narrow circle in which nature has confined us. Fifty or a 
hundred years may be allotted to an individual ; but we step forward 
beyond death with such hopes as religion and philosophy will suggest, 
and we fill up the silent vacancy that precedes our birth by associating 
ourselves to the authors of our existence. Our calmer judgment will 
rather tend to moderate than to suppress the pride of an ancient and 
worthy race. The satirist* may laugh, the philosopher may preach, 
but reason herself will respect the prejudices and habits which have 
been consecrated by the experience of mankind. Few there are who 
can sincerely despise in others an advantage of which they are secretly 
ambitious to partake. The knowledge of our own family from a re- 
mote period will be always esteemed as an abstract pre-eminence, since 
it can never be promiscuously enjoyed 5 but the longest series of 
peasants and mechanics would not afford much gratification to the 
pride of their descendant. We wish to discover our ancestors, but we 
wish to discover them possessed of ample fortunes, adorned with 
honourable titles, and holding an eminent rank in the class of here- 
ditary nobles, which has been maintained for the wisest and most 
beneficial purposes, in almost every climate of the globe, and in 
almost every modification of political society. 

Wherever the distinction of birth is allowed to form a superior 
order in the state, education and example should always, and will 
often, produce among them a dignity of sentiment and propriety of 
conduct, which is guarded from dishonour by their own and the 
public esteem. If we read of some illustrious line, so ancient that it 



* Gibbon is supposed to allude to Juvenal's eighth Satire. 



Gibbon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 27 

has no beginning, so worthy that it ought to have no end, we 
sympathize in its various fortune 3 nor can we blame the generous 
enthusiasm, or even the harmless vanity, of those who are allied to 
the honour of its name. For my own part, could I draw my pedigree 
from a general, a statesman, or a celebrated author, I should study 
their lives with the diligence of filial love. In the investigation of 
past events our curiosity is stimulated by the immediate or indirect 
reference to ourselves ; but in the estimate of honour we should learn 
to value the gifts of Nature above those of Fortune ; to esteem in our 
ancestors the qualities that best promote the interest of society ; and 
to pronounce the descendant of a king less truly noble than the 
otfspring of a man of genius, whose writings will instruct or delight 
the latest posterity. The family of Confucius* is, in my opinion^ the 
most illustrious in the world. After a painful ascent of eight or ten 
centuries, our barons and princes of Europe are lost in the darkness of 
the Middle Ages ; but, in the vast equality of the empire of China, 
the posterity of Confucius have maintained, above two thousand two 
hundred years, their peaceful honours and perpetual succession. The 
chief of the family is still revered by the sovereign and the people, as 
the lively image of the wisest of mankind. The nobility of the 
Spencers has been illustrated and enriched by the trophies of Marl- 
borough 5 f but I exhort them to consider the "Fairy Queen" as the 
most precious jewel of their coronet. Our immortal Fielding was of 
the younger branch of the Earls of Denbigh, who drew their origin 
from the Counts of Habsburg, the lineal descendants of Eltrico, in the 
seventh century Duke of Alsace. Far diiferent have been the 
fortunes of the English and German divisions of the family of Habs- 
burg 3 the former, the knights and sheriffs of Leicestershire, have 
slowly risen to the dignity of a peerage ; the latter, the Emperors 
of Germany and Kings of Spain, have threatened the liberty of the 
old, and invaded the treasures of the new world. The successors 
of Charles the Fifth may disdain their brethren of England j but 
the romance of " Tom Jones," that exquisite picture of human 
manners, will outlive the palace of the Escurial, and the imperial 

eagle of the house of Austria 

I have presumed to mark the moment of conception. I shall now 
commemorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on that day 



* This Chinese philosopher is supposed to have flourished b.c. 551-479. 

f " Nor less praiseworthy are the sisters three, 
The honour of the noble familie. 
Of which I, meanest, boast myself to be." 

Spenser's Colin Clout, ^c, v. 538. 



28 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Borrow. 

or rather night, of the 27th June, 1787, between the hours of 
eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last line of the last page,* in a 
summer-house in my garden. f After laying down my pen, I took 
several turns in a berceau, or covered walk, of acacias, which com- 
mands a prospect of the country, the lake^, and the mountains. The 
air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was 
reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dis- 
semble the first emotions of joy on recovery of my freedom, and 
perhaps the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon 
humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the 
idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable* 
companion, and that, whatsoever might be the future date of my 
History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious. — 
Memoirs of My Life and Writings. 



Ti.— THE ZINCALI; OR, THE GYPSIES IN SPAIN. 

[Borrow, 1803. 

[George Borrow, born at East Dereham in 1803, was educated at Norwich, and 
other grammar-schools, and the High School, Edinburgh. He was articled to a 
solicitor, but did not follow the profession ; and after devoting himself for some time 
to literaiy pursuits, spent several years in travel. In 1833, he entered the service of 
the British and Foreign Bible Society, for which he edited several works. In early 
life Borrow obtained, some knowledge of the Gypsies, and whilst in Spain mixed 
very much with this extraordinary race. He quitted the service of the British and 
Foreign Bible Society in 1839; ^^'^ "The Zincali; or, an Account of the Gypsies 
of Spain," appeared in 1841. This was followed by "The Bible in Spain," published 



* Gibbon refers to " The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.'* 
The origin of the work is thus described in his Memoirs : — " It was at Rome, on the 
15th October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the bare- 
footed friars were singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter,* that the idea of writing the 
decline and fall of the city first started to my mind." In another portion of his auto- 
biography he says: "Three times did I compose the first chapter, and twice the 
second and third, before I was tolerably satisfied with the effect." 

t His retreat at Lausanne, where Gibbon resided from 1783 to 1793, is thus de- 
scribed in another portion of his memoirs : — " I occupied a spacious and convenient 
mansion, connected on the north side with the city, and open on the south to a beau- 
tiful and boundless horizon. A garden of four acres had been laid out by the taste of 
Mr. Deyverdun, a Swiss friend ; from the garden a rich scenery of meadows and vine- 
yards descends to the Leman Lake, and the prospect far beyond the lake is crowned by 
the stupendous mountains of Savoy. My books and my aaiuaintance had been first 
united in London ; but this happy position of my library in town and country was 
finally reserved for Lausanne. Possessed of every comfort in this triple alliance, I 
could not be tem{)ted to change my habitation with the changes of the season." 

* Now the church of the Zocolants, or Franciscan Friars. 



Borrow.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 29 

in 1842, Both works met with considerable success, and have been re-published 
in " Murray^s Home and Colonial Library." " Lavengro the Scholar, the Gypsy, 
the Priest," appeared in 185 1 ; the " Romany Rye," a sequel to Lavengro, in 1857 > 
and " Wild Wales," in 1864.] 

It is impossible to state for certainty the exact year of the first appear- 
ance of the Gypsies in Spain, but it is reasonable to presume that it was 
early in the fifteenth century 3 as in the year T417 numerous bands 
entered France from the north-east of Europe, and speedily spread 
themselves over the greatest part of that country. Of these wan- 
derers a French author has left the following graphic description : — 
'^^ On the 17th of April, 1427, appeared in Paris twelve penitents of 
Egypt, driven from thence by the Saracens 3 they brought in their 
company one hundred and twenty persons 3 they took up their 
quarters in La Chapelle, whither the people flocked in crowds to visit 
them. They had their ears pierced, from which depended a ring of 
silver ; their hair was black and crispy, and their women were filthy 
to a degree, and were sorceresses, who told fortunes." 

Such were the people who, after traversing France, and scaling the 
sides of the Pyrenees, poured down in various bands upon the sun- 
burnt plains of Spain. Wherever they had appeared they had been 
looked upon as a curse and a pestilence, and with much reason. 
Either unwilling or unable to devote themselves to any laborious or 
useful occupation, they came light flights of wasps, to prey upon the 
fruits which their more industrious fellow-beings amassed by the toil 
of their hands and the sweat of their foreheads ; the natural result 
being, that wherever they arrived, their fellow-creatures banded them- 
selves against them. Terrible laws were enacted soon after their 
appearance in France, calculated to put a stop to their frauds and 
dishonest propensities -, wherever their hordes were found they were 
attacked by the incensed rustics, or by the armed hand of justice 3 and 
those who were not massacred on the spot, or could not escape by 
flight, were, without a shadow of trial, either hanged on the next 
tree or sent to serve for life in the galleys -, or, if females or children, 
either scourged or mutilated. 

The consequence of this severity, which, considering the manners 
and spirit of the time, is scarcely to be wondered at, was the speedy 
disappearance of the Gypsies from the soil of France. 

Many returned by the way they came, to Germany, Hungary, and 
the woods and forests of Bohemia ; but there is little doubt that by 
far the greater portion found a refuge in the Peninsula, a country 
which, though by no means so rich and fertile as the one they had 
quitted, nor oftering so wide and ready a field for the exercise of those 
fraudulent arts for which their race had become so infamously 



30 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Borrow. 

notorious, was, nevertheless, in many respects, suitable and congenial 
to them. If there were less gold and silver in the purses of the 
citizens to reward the dexterous handler of the knife and scissors 
amidst the crowd in the market-place ; if fewer sides of fatted 
swine graced the ample chimney of the labourer in Spain, than in the 
neighbouring country j if fewer beeves bellowed in the plains, and 
fewer sheep bleated upon the hills, there were far better oppor- 
tunities afforded of indulging in wild independence. Should the 
halberded bands of the city be ordered out to quell, seize, or exter- 
minate them ; should the alcade of the village cause the tocsin to be 
rung, gathering together the villanos for a similar purpose, the wild 
sierra was generally at hand, which, with its winding paths, its caves, 
its frowning precipices, and ragged thickets, would offer to them a 
secure refuge where they might laugh to scorn the rage of their 
baffled pursuers, and from which they might emerge either to fresh 
districts or to those which they had left, to repeat their ravages when 
opportunity served. 

After crossing the Pyrenees, a very short time elapsed before the 
Gypsy hordes had bivouacked in the principal provinces of Spain. 
There can, indeed, be little doubt that, shortly after their arrival, they 
made themselves perfectly acquainted with all the secrets of the land, 
and that there was scarcely a nook or retired corner within Spain, 
from which the smoke of their fires had not arisen or where their 
cattle had not grazed. People, however, so acute as they have 
always proverbially been, would scarcely be slow in distinguishing the 
provinces most adapted to their manner of life, and most calculated 
to afford them opportunities of practising those arts to which they 
were mainly indebted for their subsistence ; the savage hills of 
Biscay, of Galicia, and the Asturias, whose inhabitants were almost as 
poor as themselves, which possessed no superior breed of horses or 
mules from amongst which they might pick and purloin many a 
gallant beast, and having transformed by their dexterous scissors, 
impose him again upon his rightful master for a high price, — such 
provinces where, moreover, provisions were hard to be obtained, even 
by pilfering hands, could scarcely be supposed to offer strong tempta- 
tions to these roving visitors to settle down in, or to vex and harass by 
a long sojourn. 

Valencia and Murcia found far more favour in their eyes -, a far more 
fertile soil, and wealthier inhabitants, were better calculated to entice 
them J there was a prospect of plunder, and likewise a prospect of 
safety, a refuge, should the dogs of justice be roused against them. If 
there were the populous town and village in those lands, there was 
likewise the lone waste and uncultivated spot, to which they could 



Carlyle.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 31 

retire when danger threatened them. Still more suitable to them 
must have been La Mancha, a land of tillage, of horses, and of mules, 
skirted by its brown sierra, ever eager to afford its shelter to their 
dusky race. Equally suitable Estremadura and New Castile ; but far, 
far more, Andalusia, with its three kingdoms, Jaen, Granada, and 
Seville, one of which was still possessed by the swarthy Moor, — 
Andalusia, the land of the proud steed and the stubborn mule, the 
land of the savage sierra and the fruitful and cultivated plain : to 
Andalusia they hied in bands of thirties and sixties j the hoofs of 
their asses might be heard clattering in the passes of the stony hills ; 
the girls might be seen bounding in lascivious dance in the streets of 
many a town, and the beldames standing beneath the eaves telling 
the '' buena ventura" to many a credulous female dupe 5 the men the 
while chaffered in the fair and market-place with the labourers and 
chalanes, casting significant glances on each other, or exchanging a 
word or two in Romany, whilst they placed some uncouth animal 
in a particular posture, which served to conceal its ugliness from the 
eyes of the chapman. Yes, of all provinces of Spain Andalusia was 
the most frequented by the Gitano race, and in Andalusia they most 
abound at the present day, though no longer as restless, independent 
wanderers of the fields and hills, but as residents in villages and towns, 
especially in Seville, — The Zincali, Part I. chap. i. 



12.— TEUFELSDROCKH'S NIGHT VIEW OF THE CITY. 

[Carlyle, 1795. 

[Thomas Carlyle, born at Ecclefechan in Dumfriesshire, Dec. 4, 1795, was educated 
at the parish school, the grammar-school of Annan, and the University of Edin- 
burgh. Embracing literature as a profession, he contributed some articles to 
Brewster's " Edinburgh Encyclopaedia" and the reviews. He published a translation of 
" Legendre's Geometry" in 1824. The "Sartor Resartus" appeared in " Eraser's 
Magazine," 1833-4. The first work which bore his name was " The French Revo- 
lution, a History," published in three volumes in 1837. "Oliver Cromwell's 
Letters and Speeches, with Elucidations, and a Connecting Narrative," appeared in 
1845. The first and second volumes of his "Life of Frederick the Great" appeared 
in 1858, and the third and fourth volumes in 1864. Carlyle, who in 1827 married 
Miss Welch, left Scotland to reside in London in 1834.] 

I LOOK down into all that wasp-nest or bee-hive, and witness their 
wax-laying and honey-making, and poison-brewing, and choking by 
sulphur. From the Palace esplanade, where music plays while Serene 
Highness is pleased to eat his victuals, down the low lane, where in 
her door-sill the aged widow, knitting for a thin livelihood, sits to feel 
the afternoon sun, I see it all 3 for, except the Schlosskirche weather- 



32 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Carlyle, 

cock, no biped stands so high. Couriers arrive bestrapped and 
bebooted, bearing Joy and Sorrow bagged-up in poaches of leather : 
there, top-laden, and with four swift horses, rolls in the country Baron 
and his household ; here, on timber-leg, the lamed Soldier hops pain- 
fully along, begging alms : a thousand carriages, and wains, and cars, 
come tumbling-in with Food, with young Rusticity, and other Raw 
Produce, inanimate or animate, and go tumbling-out again with 
Produce manufactured. That living flood, pouring through these 
streets, of all qualities and ages, knowest thou whence it is coming, 
whither it is going ? From Eternity onwards to Eternity ! These are 
apparitions : what else ? Are they not souls rendered visible : in 
Bodies, that took shape and will lose.it, melting into air? Their solid 
Pavement is a Picture of the Sense 3 they walk on the bosom of 
Nothing, blank Time is behind them and before them. Or fanciest 
thou, the red and yellow Clothes-screen yonder, with spurs on its heels 
and feather in its crown, is but of To-day, without a Yesterday or a 
To-morrow ; and had not rather its Ancestor alive when Hengst and 
Horsa overran thy Island ? Friend, thou seest here a living link, in 
that Tissue of History, which inweaves all Being : watch well, or it 
will be past thee, and seen no more. '" Ach, mein Lieher F' said 
Teufelsdrockh once, at midnight, when we had returned from the 
coffee-house in rather earnest talk, " it is a true sublimity to dwell 
here. These fringes of lamplight, struggling up through smoke and 
thousand-fold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient region of 
Night, what thinks Bootes of them, as he leads his Hunting-dogs over 
the Zenith in their leash of sidereal fire ? That stifled hum of Mid- 
night, when Traffic has lain down to rest ; and the chariot-wheels of 
Vanity, still rolling here and there through distant streets, are bearing 
her to Halls roofed-in, and lighted to the due pitch for her j and only 
Vice and Misery, to prowl or to moan like night-birds, are abroad : 
that hum, I say, like the stertorous, unquiet slumber of sick Life, is 
heard in Heaven ! Oh ! under that hideous coverlet of vapours, and 
putrefactions, and unimaginable gases, what a Fermenting-vat lies 
simmering and hid! The joyful and the sorrowful are there j men 
are dying there, men are being born ; men are praying, — on the other 
side of a brick partition, men are cursing ; and around them all is the 
vast, void Night. The proud Grandee still lingers in his perfumed 
saloons, or reposes within damask curtains ; Wretchedness cowers into 
truckle-beds, or shivers hunger-stricken into its lair of straw j in 
obscure cellars, Rouge-et-Noir languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to 
haggard hungry villains ; while Councillors of State sit plotting, and 
playing their high chess-game, whereof the pawns are Men. The 
Lover whispers his mistress that the coach is ready 3 and she, full of 



Cowper.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 33 

hope and fear, glides down, to fly with him over the borders : the 
Thief, still more silently, sets-to his pick-locks and crow-bars, or lurks 
in wait till the watchmen first snore in their boxes. Gay mansions, 
with sapper-rooms and dancing-rooms, are full of light and music and 
high-swelling hearts ; but, in the condemned cells, the pulse of life 
beats tremulous and faint, and bloodshot eyes look out through the 
darkness, which is around and within, for the light of a stern last 
morning. Six men are to be hanged on the morrow : comes no ham- 
mering from the Rahenstein ! — their gallows must even now be o' 
building. Upwards ( f iive-hundred-thousand two-legged animals 
without feathers lie round us, in horizontal position ; their heads all in 
nightcaps, and full of the foolishest dreams. Riot cries aloud, and 
staggers and swaggers in his rank dens of shame ; and the Mother, 
with streaming hair, kneels over her pallid dying infant, whose cracked 
lips only her tears now moisten. — All these heaped and huddled 
together, with nothing but a little carpentry and masonry between 
them : — crammed-in, like salted fish, in their barrel 3 — or weltering, 
shall I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed vipers, each struggling 
to get its head above the others : such work goes on under that snake- 
counterpane ! — But I sit above it all 3 I am alone with the Stars !" — 
Sartor Resartus, chap. iii. 



13.— LINES ON MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

[Cowper, 1731 — 1800. 

[William Cowper, descended from a good family, was born at Great Berkhamstead, 
November 15, 173 1. He was educated at Westminster School, and called to the bar 
in 1754, though he did not follow the profession. He contributed to various 
periodicals, and was appointed clerk of the journals to the House of Lords in 1763. 
Insanity showed itself, and he was confined in a private asylum. Having recovered, 
he applied himself to literature, and published a volume of poems in 1782. "The 
Task" appeared in 1785, and his translation of " Homer," in two volumes quarto, in 
1791. A pension was granted to him in 1794, and he died April 25, 1800. Several 
biographies of the poet have been published, the principal being by W. Hayley in 1803, 
by R. Southey in 1833-7, ^"^ ^y T. S. Grimshawe in 1836.] 

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me j 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away J" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize. 



34 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Cowper. 

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it !) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song. 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
And, while that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss j 

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss • 

Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 

T heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 

And, turning from my nursery window, drew 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 

But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone. 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown : 

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 

The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 

What ardently I wished, I long believed. 

And, disappointed still, was still deceived j 

By expectation every day beguiled, 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 

I learned at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more. 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor j 
And where the gardener, Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped. 



Cowper.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 35 

'Tis now become a history little known. 

That once we called the pastoral house our own. 

Short-lived possession ! But the record fair, 

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 

A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 

The biscuit, or confectionary plum 5 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed : 

All this, and, more endearing still than all. 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 

Ne'er rougheried by those cataracts and breaks. 

That humour interposed too often makes j 

All this still legible in memory's page. 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds jo}^ to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 

Perhaps a fmil memorial, but sincere. 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued fiov/ers. 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou v/ast happier than myself the while, 
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
I would not trust my heart ; — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps J might. — 
But no : — what here we call our life is such. 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
Then sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 

D 2 



36 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Butler. 

While airs impregnated with incense play- 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gayj 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
*' Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar !" 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed. 
Sails ripped^ seams opening wide, and compass lost j 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet O, the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth j 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine j 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



14.— THE MAJESTY OF CHRIST. 

[Rev. W. a. Butleh, 1814 — 1848. 

[William AncHER Butler was born at Annerville, near Clonmel, in Ireland, in 1814. 
Bred a Roman Catholic, he became a Protestant, and studied at Trinity College, 
Dublin, to which he was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy in 1837. He 
died at an early age, July 5, 1848. Since his death some of his lectures and sermons 
have been published ; the most remarkable of these being " Lectures on the History of 
Ancient Philosophy," edited, with notes, by W. H. Thomson, published at Cam- 
bridge, in i8,s6; and " Sermons, Doctrinal and Practical," with a Memoir by the 
Rev. T. Woodward, published at Dublin in 1848.] 

In such a subject as this, what can one say which is not unworthy of 
it ? It were vain to try amplification or ornament of such things as 
these. This matter is far vaster than our vastest conception, infi- 



.Butler.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 37 

nitely grander than our loftiest 5 yet overpoweringly awful as it is, how- 
familiarity still reconciles us to hearing of it without awe ! Perhaps 
even the overpowering greatness of the subject makes us despair of 
conceiving it at all. All the wonders of God fall deadly on unfitted 
minds. And thus men learn listlessly to hear words without even an 
effort to attach ideas to them j and this is not least the case with those 
who dispute the most bitterly about the lifeless words themselves. In 
such a case all that can be done is to endeavour to devise some mode 
of meeting this miserable influence of habit, by forcing the mind to 
make some faint eifort to realize the infinite magnificence of the sub- 
ject. Let us endeavour, then, to approach it thus. 

You are wandering (I will suppose) in some of the wretched re- 
treats of poverty, upon some mission of business or charity. Perplexed 
and wearied amid its varieties of misery, you chance to come upon an 
individual whose conversation and mien attract and surprise you. Your 
attention enkindled by the gracious benevolence of the stranger's manner, 
you inquire, and the astounding fact reveals itself, that in this lone and 
miserable scene you have, by some strange conjuncture, met with one 
of the great lights of the age, one belonging to a different and distant 
sphere, one of the leaders of universal opinion on whom your thoughts 
had long been busied, and whom you had for years desired to see. 
The singular accident of an interview so unexpected fills and agitates 
your mind. You form a thousand theories as to what strange cause 
could have brought him there. You recall how he spoke and looked j 
you call it an epoch in your life to have witnessed so startling an oc- 
currence, to have beheld one so distinguished, in a scene so much out 
of all possibility of anticipation. And this, even though he were in 
no wise apparently connected with it except as witnessing and com- 
passionating its groups of misery. 

Yet again, something more wonderful than this is easily conceivable. 
Upon the same stage of wretchedness a loftier personage may be ima- 
gined. In the wild revolutions of fortune even monarchs have been 
wanderers. Suppose this, then, — improbable indeed, but not impos- 
sible surely. And then what feelings of respectful pity, of deep and 
earnest interest, would thrill your frame, as you contemplated such a 
one cast down from all that earth can minister of luxury and power, 
from the head of councils and of armies, to seek a home with the 
homeless, to share the bread of destitution, and feed on the charity of 
the scornful ! How the depths of human nature are stirred by such 
events ! how they find an echo in the recesses of our hearts, these 
terrible espousals of majesty and misery ! 

But this will not suffice. There are beings within the mind's easy 
conception that far overpass the glories of the statesman and the 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Butler. 



monarch of our earth. Men of even no extreme ardour of fancy, 
when once instructed as to the vastness of our universe, have yearned 
to know of the hfe and mtelligence that animate and that guide 
those distant regions of creation v^hich science has so abundantly and 
so v/onderfully revealed j and have dared to dream of the communi- 
cations that might subsist, — and that may yet in another state of 
existence subsist, — with the beings of such spheres. Conceive, then, 
no longer the mighty of our world in this strange union with misery 
and degradation, but the presiding spirit of one of these orbs ; or mul- 
tiply his power, and make him the deputed governor, the vicegerent 
angel, of a million of those orbs that are spread in their myriads 
through infinity. Think what it would be to be permitted to hold 
high converse with such a delegate of heaven as this ; to find this 
lord of a million worlds the actual inhabitant of our own ; to see him 
and yet live ; to learn the secrets of his immense administration, and 
hear of forms of being of which men can now have no more concep- 
tion than the insect living on a leaf has of the forest that surrounds 
him. Still more, to find in this being an interest, a real interest in the 
affairs of our little corner of the universe ; of that earthly cell which, 
in point of fact, is absolutely invisible from the nearest fixed star that 
sparkles in the heavens above us. Nay, to find him willing to throw 
aside his glorious toils of empire, in order to meditate our welfare, and 
dwell among us for a time. This surely would be wondrous, ap- 
palling, and yet transporting ; such as that, when it had passed away, 
life would seem to have nothing more it could offer compared to the 
being blessed with such an intercourse ! 

And now mark, — behind all the visible scenery of nature j beyond 
all the systems of all the stars j around this whole universe, and 
through the infinity of infinite space itself j from all eternity and to all 
eternity ; there lives a Being, compared to whom that mighty spirit 
just described, with his empire of a million suns, is infinitely less than 
to you is the minutest mote that floats in the sunbeam. 

There is a Being in whose breath lives the whole immense of worlds, 
who with the faintest wish could blot them all from existence, and 
who, after they had all vanished away<like a dream, would remain, 
filling the whole trem:;ndous solitude they left, as unimpaired in all 
the fulness of His might as when He first scattered them around Him 
to be the flaming beacons of His glory. With Him, co-infinite with 
immensity, coeval with eternity, the universe is a span, its duration a 
moment. Hear His voice attesting His own eternal sovereignty : 
" Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass 
away." But who is He that thus builds the throne of His glory upon 
the ruins of earth and heaven j who is He that thus triumphs over a 



Willmott.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 39 

perishing universe. Himself alone eternal and impassible ? The child 
of a Jewish woman, brethren. He who, as on this day, was laid in 
a manger, because there was no room for Him in the inn at 
Bethlehem ! — Sermons, Doctrinal and Practical — Sermon on the 
Mystery of the Incarnation, Luke i. 35. 



15.— THE LONG LIFE OF BOOKS. 

[Rev. R. a. Willmott, 1863. 

[Robert Aris Willmott, born at the commencement of the century, was presented 
to St. Catherine's, Bearwood, Berkshire, in 1846. His "Lives of the Sacred Poets" 
appeared in 1838. " Bishop Jeremy Taylor and his Contemporaries," was published 
in 1847, and his "Journal of Summer Time in the Country'," in 1849. The " Plea- 
sures, Objects, and Advantages of Literature" was published in 1851. The Rev. 
R. A. Willmott, who wrote other books, and edited the works of several English 
poets, died at Nettlebed, Oxon, May 27, 1863.] 

There are two aspects under which we might regard language as a 
channel for communicating instruction and pleasure. One would be 
SPEECH. How astonishing it is to know that a man may stand in the 
crowd of learned or ignorant, thoughtful or reckless hearers — all the 
elements of reason and passion tumultuously tossed together — and 
knock at the door of each heart in succession ! Think how this 
wonder has been wrought already. By Demosthenes waving the 
stormy democracy into a calm, from a sunny hill-side 5 by Plato, en- 
chaining the souls of his disciples under the boughs of a dim plane- 
tree ; by Cicero, in the stern silence of the Forum 3 by our own 
Chatham, in the chapel of St. Stephen. They knocked and entered, 
wandered through the bosoms of their hearers, threaded the dark 
labyrinths of feeling, aroused the fiercest passions in their lone con- 
cealment. They did more. In every heart they erected a throne, 
and gave laws. The Athenian populace started up with one accord 
and one cry to a march upon Philip 5 the Senate throbbed with in- 
dignation at Catihne ; and the British Parliament was dissolved for a 
tew hours, that it might recover from the wand of the enchanter. 

But it is in the second manifestation of language that the most mar- 
vellous faculty resides ; the written outlives and outdazzles the spoken 
word. The life of rhetoric perishes with the rhetorician j it darkens 
with his eye, stiffens with his hand, freezes with his tongue. The 
bows of eloquence are buried with the archers. Where is the splendid 
declamation of Bolingbroke ? It has vanished, like his own image, 
from the grass-plats of Twickenham. 

That intellect, to which the printing-press gives a body, an unquench- 
able spirit inhabits. Literature is the immortality of speech. It embalms 



4C THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Croly. 

for all ages the departed kings of learning, and watches over their repose 
in the eternal pyramids of fame. The sumptuous cities which have 
lighted the world since the beginning of time, are now beheld only in the 
pictures of the historian or the poet. Homer rebuilds Troy, and 
Thucydides renews the war of Peloponnesus. The dart that pierced 
the Persian breast-plate moulders in the dust of Marathon ; but the 
arrow of Pindar quivers, at this hour, with the life of his bow ; like 
the discus of Hippomedon — 

" Jamque procul meminit dextrce, servatque tenorem." 

We look with grateful eyes upon this preservative power of litera- 
ture. When the Gothic night descended over Europe, Virgil and 
Livy were nearly forgotten and unknown ; but far away in lone 
corners of the earth amid silence and shadow, the ritual of Genius 
continued to be solemnized ; without were barbarism, storm- and 
darkness — within, light, fragrance, and music. So the sacred fire of 
Learning burst upon its scattered shrines, until torch after torch carried 
the flame over the world. 

One of the Spanish romancers shows Cydippe contemplating 
herself in a glass, and the power of Venus making the reflection 
permanent. The fable has a new and a pleasanter reading in the 
history of literature. A book becomes a mirror, with the author's 
face shining over it. Talent only gives an imperfect image — the 
broken glimmer of a countenance. But the features of genius remain 
unruffled. Time guards the shadow. Beauty, the spiritual Venus — 
whose children are the Tassos, the Spensers, the Bacons — breathes the 
magic of her love, and fixes the face for ever. 

These glasses of fancy, eloquence, or wisdom, possess a stranger 
power. Illuminated by the sun of fame, they threw rays over 
watchful and reverent admirers. The beholder carries away some of 
the gilding lustre. And thus it happens that the light of Genius never 
sets, but sheds itself upon other faces in different hues of splendour. 
Homer glows in the softened beauty of Virgil, and Spenser revives 
in the decorated learning of Gray. — Pleasures, Objects, and Jdvantages 
of Literature, § ii. 



i6.— THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 

[Rev. G. Croly, 1780 — 1860. 

[Geohgk Croly was born in Dublin in 1780, and educated at Trinity College, in that 
city. His first publication was a poem, "Paris, in 1815." "The Angel of the 
World," another poenm, appeared in 1820; " Catiline," a tragedy, in 1821 ; " Pride 
shall have a Fall," in 1824; and " Salathiel," a romance, in 1827. Dr. Croly, who 
was appointed afternoon preacher at the Foundling Hospital, London, in 1847, was 



Croly.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 41 

rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. He contributed largely to various periodicals and 
newspapers, and published several works in addition to those of which the titles arc 
given above. He died in London, November 24, i860.] 

The fall of our illustrious and unhappy city was supernatural. The 
destruction of the conquered was against the first principles of Roman 
polity ; and, to the last hour of our national existence, Rome held out 
offers of peace, and lamented our frantic disposition to be undone. 
But the decree was gone forth from a mightier throne. During the 
latter days of the siege, a hostility, to which that of man was as the grain 
of sand to the tempest that drives it on, overpowered our strength and 
senses. Fearful shapes and voices in the air ; visions starting us from 
our short and troubled sleep ; lunacy in its most hideous forms ; 
sudden death in the midst of vigour ; the fury of the elements let 
loose upon our unsheltered heads ; we had every terror and evil that 
could beset human nature, but pestilence 3 the most probable of all in 
a city crowded with the famishing, the diseased, the wounded, the 
dead. Yet, though the streets were covered with the unburied j 
though every wall and trench was streaming with gore ; though six 
hundred thousand corpses flung over the rampart lay naked to the sun 
— pestilence came not -, for, if it had come, the enemy would have 
been scared away. But, "the abomination of desolation," the pagan 
standard, was fixed ; where it was to remain, until the plough passed 
over the ruins of Jerusalem ! 

On one fatal night, that fatal night ! no man laid his head upon the 
pillow. Heaven and earth were in conflict. Meteors burned over 
us ; the ground shook under our feet : the volcano blazed : the wind 
burst forth in irresistible blasts, and swept the living and the dead, in 
whirlwinds, far into the desert. We heard the bellowing of the dis-. 
tant Mediterranean, as if its waters were at our side, swelled by a new 
deluge. The lakes and rivers roared, and inundated the land. The 
fiery sword shot out tenfold fire. Showers of blood fell. Thunder 
pealed from every quarter of the heaven. Lightning in immense 
sheets, of an intensity and duration that turned the darkness into more 
than day, withering eye and soul, burned from the zenith to the 
ground, and marked its track by forests on flame, and the shattered 
summits of the hills. 

Defence was now unthought of j for the mortal hostility had passed 
from the mind. Our hearts quaked for fear 3 but it was, to see the 
powers of heaven shaken. All cast away the shield and the spear, and 
crouched before the descending judgment. We were conscience 
smitten. Our cries of remorse, anguish, and horror, were heard 
through the uproar of the storm. We howled to the caverns to hide 
us 3 we plunged into the sepulchres, to escape the wrath that con- 



42 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Croly. 

sumed the livings we would have buried ourselves under the 
mountains ! 

I knew the cause, the unspeakable cause, and knew that the last 
hour of crime was at hand. A few fugitives, astonished to see one 
man among them not sunk into the lowest feebleness of fear, came 
round me, and besought me to lead them to some place of safety, if 
such were now to be found on earth. I told them openly, that they 
were to die ; and counselled them to die in the hallowed ground of 
the temple. They followed m3 through streets encumbered with 
every shape of human suffering, to the foot of Mount Moriah. But, 
beyond that, we found advance impossible. Piles of cloud, whose 
darkness was palpable, even in the midnight in which we stood, 
covered the holy hill. Still, not to be daunted by anything that man 
could overcome, I cheered my disheartened band, and attempted to 
lead the way up the ascent. But I had scarcely entered the cloud, 
when I was swept downward by a gust, that tore the rocks in a flinty 
shower round me. 

Now, came the last and most wonderful sign, that marked the fate 
of rejected Israel. 

While I lay helpless, I heard the whirlwind roar through the cloudy 
hill ; and the vapours began to revolve. A pale light, like that of the 
rising moon, quivered on their edges ; and the clouds rose, and rapidly 
shaped themselves into the forms of battlements and towers. The 
sound of voices was heard within, low and distinct, yet strangely 
sweet. The lustre brightened, and the airy building rose, tower on 
tower, and battlement on battlement. In awe that held us mute, we 
knelt and gazed upon this more than mortal architecture, which con- 
tinued rising and spreading, and glowing with a serener light, still soft 
and silvery, yet to which the broadest moonbeam was dim. At last, 
it stood forth to earth and heaven the colossal image of the first 
Temple, the building raised by the wisest of men, and consecrated by 
the visible glory. All Jerusalem saw the image ; and the shout, that 
In the midst of their despair, ascended from thousands and tens of 
thousands, told what proud remembrances were there. But, a hymn 
was heard, that might have hushed the world. Never fell on my ear, 
never on the human sense, a sound so majestic, yet so subduing 5 so 
full of melancholy, yet of grandeur. The cloudy portal opened, and 
from it marched a host, such as man had never seen before, such as 
man shall never see, but once, again j the guardian angels of the city 
of David ! — they came forth glorious, but with woe in all their steps 5 
the stars upon their helmets dim ; their robes stained 5 tears flowing 
down their celestial beauty. *^ Let us go hence," was their song of 
sorrow. — " Let us go hence," was answered by sad echoes of the moun- 



Bede.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 43 

tains. — " Let us go hence/' swelled upon the night, to the farthest 
limits of the land. The procession lingered long on the summit of the 
hill. Then the thunder pealed j and they rose at the command, dif- 
fusing waves of light over the expanse of heaven. Their chorus was 
heard, still magnificent and melancholy, when their splendour was 
diminished to the brightness of a star. The thunder roared again ; 
the cloudy temple was scattered on the winds 5 and darkness, the 
omen of her grave, settled upon Jerusalem ! — Salathiel, the Immortal, 
ch. Ixiv. 



17.— THE LIFE OF BISHOP AIDAN. 

[Bede, 674—735. 

[Beda, or Bede, better known as the Venerable Bede, was born near Wearmouth 
between the years 672 and 677; the Rev. J. Stevenson contends for 674. At seven 
years of age he went into the monastery of St. Peter at Wearmouth, took deacon's 
orders in his nineteenth, and was ordained priest in his thirtieth year. Bede devoted 
his time to study, and about 734 published, in Latin, his " Ecclesiastical History of 
England." To this work Bede appended a list of the other books he had written. 
His Ecclesiastical History was translated into the Anglo-Saxon by King Alfred, and 
was first printed about 1474. The first English edition, by Thomas Stapleton, was 
published at Antwerp in 1563. The Rev. J. Stevenson edited the Latin text, and 
wrote a memoir of Bede for the Historical Society in 1838. Another English edition 
has been published in Bohn's Antiquarian Library. Bede died at Jarrow, May 26, 
735, and was buried in the church of the monastery, but his bones were in the 
eleventh century removed to the cathedral of Durham, in the Galilee of which may 
still be seen the stone bearing the inscription — 

" Hac sunt in fossa Bedae venerabilis ossa ;" 

rendered in a monkish rhyme — 

" Here lie beneath these stones 
Venerable Bede's bones.'* 

His life, written by Capt. John Stevens, appeared in 1723; by the Rev. J. Stevenson 
(English Historical Society) in 18383 and by Dr. Giles in 1842.] 

From the aforesaid island,* and college of Monks, was Aidan sent to 
instruct the English nation in Christ, having received the dignity of a 
bishop at the time when Segenius,t abbat and priest, presided over 
that monastery ; whence, among other instructions for life, he left the 
clergy a most salutary example of abstinence or continence ; it was 
the highest commendation, of his doctrine, with all men, that he 



* Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, off the coast of Northumberland, which was made his 
episcopal see by King Oswald. Bede (b. hi. c. 3) says : "Which place, as the tide 
flows and ebbs twice a day, is enclosed by the waves of the sea like an insland; and 
again, twice in the day, when the shore is left dry, becomes contiguous to the land " 
t The fourth abbat from St, Columba. 



44 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bede. 

taught no otherwise than he and his followers had lived ; for he 
neither sought nor loved anything of this world, but delighted in 
distributing immediately among the poor whatsoever was given him by 
the kings or rich men of the world. He was wont to traverse both 
town and country on foot, never on horseback, unless compelled by 
some urgent necessity 5 and wherever in his way he saw any, either 
rich or poor, he invited them, if infidels, to embrace the mystery of 
the faith ; or if they were believers, to strengthen them in the faith, 
and to stir them up by words and actions to alms and good works. 

His course of life was so diiferent from the slothfulness of our 
times, that all those who bore him company, whether they were 
shorn monks or laymen, were employed in meditation, that is, either 
in reading the Scriptures, or learning psalms. This was the daily 
employment of himself and all that were with him, wheresoever they 
went ; and if it happened, which was but seldom, that he was invited 
to eat with the king, he went with one or two clerks, and having 
taken a small repast, made haste to be gone with them, either to read 
or write. At that time, many religious men and women, stirred up 
by his example, adopted the custom of fasting on Wednesdays and 
Fridays, till the ninth hour, throughout the year, except during the 
fifty days after Easter. He never gave money to the powerful men of 
the world, but only meat, if he happened to entertain them ; and, on 
the contrary, whatsoever gifts of money he received from the rich, he 
either distributed them, as has been said, to the use of the poor, or 
bestowed them in ransoming such as had been wrongfully sold for 
slaves. Moreover, he afterwards made many of those he had ransomed 
his disciples, and after having taught and instructed them, advanced 
them to the order of priesthood. 

It is reported, that when King Oswald had asked a bishop of the 
Scots to administer the word of faith to him and his nation, there was 
first sent to him another man of more austere disposition, who, meeting 
with no success, and being unregarded by the English people, returned 
home, and in an assembly of the elders reported that he had not been 
able to do any good to the nation he had been sent to preach to, 
because they were uncivilized men, and of a stubborn and barbarous 
disposition. They, as is testified, in a great council seriously debated 
what was to be done, being desirous that the nation should receive the 
salvation it demanded, and grieving that they had not received the 
preacher sent to them. Then said Aidan, who was also present in 
the council, to the priest then spoken of, '' I am of opinion, brother, 
that you were more severe to your unlearned hearers than you ought 
to have been, and did not at first, conformably to the apostolic rule, 
give them the milk of more easy doctrine^ till being by degrees 



Curzon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 45 

nourished with the word of God, they should be capable of greater per- 
fection, and be able to practise God's sublimer precepts." Having heard 
these words, all present began diligently to weigh what he had said, and 
presently concluded that he deserved to be made a bishop, and ought 
to be sent to instruct the incredulous and unlearned j since he was 
found to be endued with singular discretion, which is the mother of 
other virtues, and accordingly being ordained, they sent him to their 
friend. King Oswald, to preach ; and he, as time proved, afterwards 
appeared to possess all other virtues, as well as the discretion for which 
he was before remarkable. — Bedes Ecclesiastical History of England, 
{Bohns Antiq. Lib.), b. hi. c. 5. 



18.— THE LEGEND OF KING SOLOMON AND THE HOOPOES. 

[The Hon. R. Curzon, 1810. 

[The Honourable Robert Curzon, the son of the Baroness de la Zouche, was born in 
1810, and received his education at the Charterhouse and Christ Church, Oxford. 
Having entered the diplomatic service, he was appointed private secretary to Lord 
Stratford de Redcliffe. In this capacity Mr. Curzon obtained access to the monas- 
teries and religious houses of the Levant, and collected many valuable manuscripts 
and books. "Visits to the Monasteries in the Levant" appeared in 1848. This 
was followed by "Armenia; a Residence at Erzeroum," published in 1854.] 

In the days of King Solomon, the son of David, who, by the virtue of 
his cabalistic seal, reigned supreme over genii as well as men, and who 
could speak the languages of animals of all kinds, all created beings 
were subservient to his will. Now, when the king wanted to travel, 
he made use, for his conveyance, of a carpet of a square form. This 
carpet had the property of extending itself to a sufficient size to carry 
a whole array, with the tents and baggage 3 but at other times it could 
be reduced so as to be only large enough for the support of the royal 
throne, and of those ministers whose duty it was to attend upon the 
person of the sovereign. Four genii of the air then took the four 
corners of the carpet, and carried it with its contents wherever King 
Solomon desired. Once the king was on a journey in the air, carried 
upon his throne of ivory over the various nations of the earth. The 
rays of the sun poured down upon his head, and he had nothing to 
protect him from its heat. The fiery beams were beginning to scorch 
his neck and shoulders, when he saw a flock of vultures flying past. 
*' O, vultures !" cried King Solomon, " come and fly between me 
and the sun, and make a shadow with your wings to protect me, for 
its rays are scorching my neck and face." But the vultures answered, 
and said, "We are flying to the north, and your face is turned towards 



46 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Carzon. 

the south. We desire to continue on our way ; and be it known unto 
thee, O king ! that we will not turn back in our flight, neither will we 
fly above your throne to protect you from the sun, although its rays 
may be scorching your neck and face." Then King Solomon lifted 
up his voice, and said, '' Cursed be ye, O vultures ! — and because you 
will not obey the commands of your lord, who rules over the whole 
world, the feathers of your neck shall fall off 5 and the heat of the sun, 
and the cold of the winter, and the keenness of the wind, and the 
beating of the rain, shall fall upon your rebellious necks, which shall 
not be protected with feathers, like the neck of other birds. And 
whereas you have hitherto fared delicately, henceforward ye shall eat 
carrion and feed upon offal ; and your race shall be impure till the end 
of the world." And it was done unto the vultures as King Solomon 
had said. 

Now it fell out that there was a flock of hoopoes flying past ; and 
the king cried out to them, and said, " O hoopoes ! come and fly 
between me and the sun, that I may be protected from its rays by the 
shadow of your wings." Whereupon the king of the hoopoes 
answered, and said, " O king ! we are but little fowls, and we are not 
able to afford much shade ; but we will gather our nation together, 
and by our numbers we will make up for our small size." So the 
hoopoes gathered together, and, flying in a cloud over the throne of 
the king, they sheltered him from the rays of the sun. When the 
journey was over, and King Solomon sat upon his golden throne, in 
his palace of ivory, whereof the doors were emerald, and the windows 
of diamonds, larger even than the diamond of Jemshea, he commanded 
that the king of hoopoes should stand before his feet. 

" Now," said King Solomon, *'for the service that thou and thy race 
have rendered, and the obedience thou hast shown to the king, thy 
lord and master, what shall be done unto thee, O hoopoe ? — and what 
shall be given to the hoopoes of thy race, for a memorial and a 
reward?" 

Now the king of the hoopoes was confused with the great honour 
of standing before the feet of the king 5 and making his obeisance and 
laying his right claw upon his heart, he said, •' O king, live for ever ! 
Let a day be given to thy servant, to consider with his queen and his 
counsellors what it shall be that the king shall give unto us for a 
reward." And King Solomon said, " Be it so." 

And it was so. 

But the king of the hoopoes flew away 5 and he went to his queen, 
who was a dainty hen, and he told her what had happened, and desired 
her advice as to what they should ask of the king for a reward ; and 
he called together his council, and they sat upon a tree, and they each 



Curzon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 47 

of them desired a different thing. Some wished for a long tail -, some 
wished for blue and green feathers ; some wished to be as large as 
ostriches ; some wished for one thing, and some for another ; and they 
debated till the going down of the sun, but they could not agree 
together. Then the queen took the king of the hoopoes apart and 
said to him, " My dear lord and husband, listen to my words ; and as 
we have preserved the head of King Solomon, let us ask for crowns of 
gold on our heads, that we may be superior to all other birds." 

And the words of the queen and the princesses, her daughters, pre- 
vailed ; and the king of the hoopoes presented himself before the 
throne of Solomon, and desired of him that all hoopoes should wear 
golden crowns upon their heads. Then Solomon said, " Hast thou 
considered well what it is that thou desirest ?" And the hoopoe said, 
*' I have considered well, and we desire to have golden crowns upon 
our heads." So Solomon replied, " Crowns of gold shall ye have : 
but, behold, thou art a foolish bird ; and when the evil days shall come 
upon thee, and thou seest the folly of thy heart, return here to me, and 
I will give thee help." So the king of the hoopoes left the presence 
of King Solomon with a golden crown upon his head, and all the 
hoopoes had golden crowns j and they were exceeding proud and 
haughty. Moreover, they went down by the lakes and the pools, and 
walked by the margin of the water, that they might admire themselves, 
as it were, in a glass. And the queen of the hoopoes gave herself 
airs, and sat upon a twig -, and she refused to speak to the merops, her 
cousins, and the other birds who had been her friends, because they 
were but vulgar birds, and she wore a crown of gold upon her head. 

Now there was a certain fowler who set traps for birds ; and he put 
a piece of a broken mirror into his trap, and a hoopoe that went in to 
admire itself was caught. And the fowler looked at it, and saw the 
shining crown upon its head ; so he wrung off its head, and took the 
crown to Issachar, the son of Jacob, the worker in metal, and he asked 
him what it was. So Issachar, the son of Jacob, said, " It is a crown 
of brass," and he gave the fowler a quarter of a shekel for it, and 
desired him, if he found any more, to bring them to him, and to tell 
no man thereof. So the fowler caught some more hoopoes, and sold 
their crowns to Issachar, the son of Jacob ; until one day he met 
another man who was a jeweller, and he showed him several of the 
hoopoes' crowns. Whereupon the jeweller told him that they were 
of pure gold, and he gave the fowler a talent of gold for four of 
them. 

Now when the value of these crowns was known, the fame of them 
got abroad, and in all the land of Israel was heard the twang of bows 
and the whirling of slings 3 bird-lime was made in every town j and 



48 THE E VERY-BAY BOOK [Croker. 

the price of traps rose in the market, so that the fortunes of the trap- 
makers increased. Not a hoopoe could show its head but it was slain 
or taken captive, and the days of the hoopoes were numbered. Then 
their minds were filled with sorrow and dismay, and before long few 
were left to bewail their cruel destiny. 

At last, flying by stealth through the most unfrequented places, the 
unhappy king of the hoopoes went to the court of King Solomon, and 
stood again before the steps of the golden throne, and with tears and 
groans related the misfortunes which had happened to his race. 

So King Solomon looked kindly upon the king of the hoopoes, and 
said unto him, " Behold, did I not warn thee of thy folly, in desiring 
to have crowns of gold ? Vanity and pride have been thy ruin. But 
now, that a memorial may remain of the service which thou didst 
render unto me, your crowns of gold shall be changed into crowns of 
feathers, that ye may walk unharmed upon the earth." Now, when 
the fowlers saw that the hoopoes no longer wore crowns of gold upon 
their heads, they ceased from the persecution of their race ; and from 
that time forth the family of the hoopoes have flourished and increased, 
and have continued in peace even to the present day. — Visits to 
Monasteries in the Levant, chap. xii. 



19.— THE TUILERIES. 

[Croker, 1780 — 1857. 

[John Wilson Croker, the representative of a branch of an ancient Devonshire family, 
was born at Galway, December 20, 1780. Educated at a school in Cork and Trinity 
College, Dublin, he was called to the Irish Bar in 1802. His first production, 
" Familiar Epistles to J. F. Jones, Esq., on the Present State of the Irish Stage," 
appeared in 1803. In May, 1807, Mr. Croker was returned to Parliament, and in 
1809, he was appointed Secretary to the Admiralty. Mr. Croker, who retired from 
Parliament after the passing of the Reform Bill, contributed largely to the " Quarterly 
Review,^' and edited several important works; amongst others, an edition of Boswell's 
" Life of Johnson." In 1857, some of his contributions to the " Quarterly" were 
re-published, under the title, " Essays on the Early Period of the French Revolution." 
Mr. Croker died Aug. 10, 1857.] 

At the western extremity of Paris there stood, up to the time of 
Francis I., an irregular mass of Gothic towers, called the Louvre, in 
which, as was the custom of those early ages, were combined a palace, 
a prison, and a fortress, which protected the town on the west side, as 
the Bastille did on the east. Francis, finding this building unfit for a 
residence, and not worth repairing, began, and his son, Henry II., 
completed a more regular edifice in the Italian taste, which is now 
the western side of xh^vieux Louvre. This new edifice was, however, 
soon surrounded by the encroachments of the increasing town j and 



Croker.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 49 

his widowj Catherine de Medicis, wishing to have a residence of her 
own when her son should occupy the Louvre, began in the open 
country to the westward, on a piece of ground called, from the use 
then made of it, Les Tuileries, the magnificent palace now known by 
that name -, and her sons, three successive kings of France, contiimed 
the work by additional wings and pavilions. In the meanwhile, the 
town continued to increase, and the space between the two palaces 
was covered with buildings, and grew, and continued, up to 1804, to be 
a closely built and densely inhabited quarter of the city. Whether in 
pursuance of Catherine's original design, or from his own, her second 
son, Charles IX., determined to unite his two palaces by the celebrated 
gallery along the river side. This was continued by his brother, 
Henry III., and completed by Henry IV. ; so far, at least, that we 
know that, on the ist May, 1610, exactly a fortnight before the day 
of his death, he walked from the Tuileries to the Louvre along " la 
grande galerie' arm in arm with the Due de Guise and the Marshal 
de Bassompierre. We note this because some writers attribute the 
completion of the gallery to Louis XIII. and to Louis XIV. j 
nay, we have even met persons in France and England so ignorant as 
to attribute both the design and execution to Buonaparte. No doubt, 
both Louis XIII. and XIV. continued the works at both palaces, but 
it seems certain that the gallery was so far completed by Henry IV., 
that the espousals of the Prince de Conde with Mademoiselle de 
Montmorenci were celebrated there in 1609, and that Henry himself 
walked through it, as we have said, in 1610. Buonaparte's only, but 
not inglorious, share in the gallery, was the splendid execution of a 
design proposed, and even begun, in the reign of Louis XVL, for 
appropriating it to the reception and exhibition of objects of science 
and of art. 

But the vast space now open between the two palaces was, to a 
recent period, covered with houses, which ran up close to both. The 
front of the Tuileries, especially, was encumbered and disfigured bj a 
number of mean, irregular buildings, domestic offices, porters' lodges, 
barracks, stables, and the like, which formed four courts, of which 
that to the south was called La Cour des Princes ; the next, and 
largest, occupying about a third of the whole space, called La Cour 
Royale, formed the main approach to the palace. It was enclosed by 
an ordinary wall, through which there were close wooden gates, from 
LaPlace du Carrousel. This place was a kind of square, where three 
or four streets met. About what was its centre, Buonaparte's Arch 
now occupies the site where the first permanent guillotine had been 
erected. The domestic offices and adjuncts that disfigured txiis side 
of the Tuileries seem to have been almost necessary, if the palace were 



50 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Keats. 

to be a residence. Their removal, so advantageous in an artistical 
view, has rendered it a most uncomfortable, and, in the neighbourhood 
of so turbulent a population, dangerous residence, for it has no internal 
light or air. Every entrance and window open on public thorough- 
fares, and are, of course, subjected to the sight, and possibly to the 
fire, of the people in the surrounding houses and streets. During the 
time that Louis XVI. and his family inhabited it, they could take no 
exercise but on the terrace next the river, and then only early in the 
morning ; and even that was soon interdicted to them by the in- 
creasing impatience and insolence of the mob ; and the Queen her- 
self complained to Dumouriez, that " even in the summer evenings 
she conld not open the window for a little fresh air without being 
exposed to the grossest invectives and menaces." 

It is evident that an edifice so circumstanced, however noble as a 
palace for royal representations, was a very unsafe one as a royal 
residence.^ It had not, however, been so occupied for near a century 
till the violences of the 6th of October dragged the royal family from 
Versailles, and confined them in this stately prison, in which they 
languished rather than lived, under a close surveillance, daily insults, 
and frequent perils, till the crowning catastrophe of the tenth of 
August, which, atrocious as it was in its purpose and disastrous in its 
results, had the unforeseen consequence of removing the obstructions 
we have described, and making the first opening towards that magni- 
ficent esplanade which now extends from the Tuileries to the Louvre. 
That fatal day sent the monarch to a stronger prison, but it liberated 
the palaces. \ — Essays on the Early Period of the French Revomtion. 
Essay III. 



20.— ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

[Keats, 1795 — 1821. 

[John Keats was born in London, Oct. 29, 1795. He received a scanty education, 
never having learned Greek, and is said to have taken his mythology from Tooke's 
" Pantheon" and Lempriere's Dictionary. At fifteen he w^as apprenticed to a 
surgeon at Edmonton, and on repairing to London to walk the hospitals became 
acquainted with Leigh Hunt and other literary men. Much of his time was spent 
in writing poetry, and in 1817 he published a small volame of poems, followed by 



* The Convention, when they occu])ied it, found it equally insecure. The hall 
where they sat (the theatre) was m a frequent state of siege, often attacked, and twice 
at least stormed. 

t in another part of this essay the author remarks : — "The great work of com- 
pleting the projected junction of the Tuileries and the Louvre has been of late carried 
out with great architectural magnificence and eftect." The description is valuable, as 
adbrding the reader a good idea of th.; locality in the time of the French Revolution. 



Keats.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 51 

"The Endymion" in 1818. The latter work was sharply criticised in "The 
Quarterly" and in " Blackwood/' and for some time his early death was erroneously 
attributed to the severity with which he had been assailed. Byron makes the fol- 
lowing allusion to this circumstance in " Don Juan" (canto xi. s. 60) : — 

** John Keats, who was killed off by one critique. 
Just as he really promised something great. 
If not intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late. 
Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 

Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
^ Should let itself be snuffed out by an article." 

The truth is that he fell a victim to consumption. He repaired to Italy in the hope 
of restoring his health, and died at Rome Feb. 27, 1821; his last words being, 
" Thank God it has come." John Keats was buried in the Protestant cemetery at 
Rome. A memoir by R. Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton) is prefixed to a col- 
lected edition of his poetical works, published in 1854.] 

My heart aches^ and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light- winged Dryad of the trees. 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 

Dance, and Provengal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker fdl of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And parple-stained month ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known,. 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan j 

£ 2 



52 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Keats. 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs. 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies j 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Lovepine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night. 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays j 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine j 
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 

To take into the air my quiet breath j 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not horn for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 



Hall.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 53 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the aHen corn 3 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 



21.— OF PARADISE. Gen. ii. and iii. 

[Bishop Hall, 1574 — 1656. 

[Joseph Hall, born at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire, July i, 1574, and educated 
at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, was made Dean of Worcester in 161 7. He was 
one of the English deputies at the synod of Dort in 1618, was appointed Bishop of 
Exeter in 1627, and was translated to Norwich in 1641. Having with other bishops 
protested against the validity of all laws passed during their enforced absence from 
Parliament, he was sent to the Tower in November, 1641. At the end of seven 
months he was released on giving bail for ^'5000, when he found that the revenues 
of his see had been sequestrated. In 1647, he retired to a small farm at Higham, 
near Norwich, where he died in poverty September 8, 1656. Bishop Hall was a 
very prolific writer. His " Virgidemiarium," a collection of satires, appeared in 
1599 or in 1602 ; and his " Characters of Virtues and Vices," in 1608 ; and " Contem- 
plations on the Historical Passages of the Holy Story," 1612-15. A Life, by the 
Rev. J. Pratt, is prefixed to his edition of his works, published in 1808.] 

Man could no sooner see than he saw himself happy : his eyesight 
and reason were both perfect at once, and the objects of both were 
able to make him as happy as he would. When he first opened his 
eyes, he saw heaven above him, earth under him, the creatures about 
him, God before him ; he knew what all these things meant, as if he 
had been long acquainted with them all ; he saw the heavens glorious, 
but far off: his Maker thought it requisite to fit him with a paradise 
nearer home. If God had appointed him immediately to heaven, his 
body had been superfluous 3 it was fit his body should be answered 



54 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hall 

with an earthen image of that heaven, which was for his soul : had 
man been made only for contemplation, it would have served as well 
to have been placed in some vast desert ; on the top of some barren 
mountain ; but the same power which gave him a heart to meditate 
gave him hands to work, and work fit for his hands. 

Neither was it the purpose of the Creator, that man should but 
live ; pleasure may stand with innocence : he that rejoiced to see 
all that he had made to be good, rejoiceth to see all that he hath 
made to be well. God loves to see his creatures happy -, our lawful 
delight is his : they know not God that think to please him with 
making themselves miserable. The idolaters thought it a fit service 
for Baal to cut and lance themselves ; never any holy man looked for 
thanks from the true God, by wronging himself. 

Every earth was not fit for Adam, but a garden, a paradise. What 
excellent pleasures and rare varieties have men found in gardens 
planted by the hands of men ! And yet all the world of men cannot 
make one twig, or leaf, or spire of grass. When he that made the 
matter undertakes the fashion, how must it needs be beyond our 
capacity, excellent ! No herb, no flower, no tree, was wanting there, 
that might be for ornament or use, whether for sight, or for scent, or 
for taste. The bounty of God wrought further than to necessity, 
even to comfort and recreation. Why are we niggardly to ourselves, 
when God is liberal ? But, for all this, if God had not there con- 
versed with man, no abundance could have made him blessed. 

Yet, behold ! that which was man's storehouse was also his work- 
house ; his pleasure was his task : paradise served not only to feed his 
senses, but to exercise his hands. If happiness had consisted in doing 
nothing, man had not been employed ; all his delights could not have 
made him happy in an idle life. Man, therefore, is no sooner made 
than he is set to work 3 neither greatness nor perfection can privilege 
a folded hand j he must labour because he was happy ; how much 
more we, that we may be ! This first labour of his was, as without 
necessity, so without pains, without weariness ; how much more 
cheerfully we go about our businesses, so much nearer we come to 
our paradise. 

Neither did these trees afford him only action for his hands, but 
instruction to his hearty for here he saw God's sacraments grow 
before him 5 all other trees had a natural use, these two in the midst 
of the garden a spiritual. Life is the act of the soul, knowledge the 
life of the soul ; the tree of knowledge, and the tree of life, then, 
were ordained as earthly helps of the spiritual part. Perhaps he, 
which ordained the end, immortality of life, did appoint this fruit as 
the means of that life. It is not for us to inquire after the life we 



Hall.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 55 

had, and the means we should have had. I am sure it served to 
nourish the soul by a livel)'' representation of that living tree whose 
fruit is eternal life, and whose leaves serve to heal the nations. 

O, infinite mercy ! Man saw his Saviour before him, ere he had 
need of a Saviour ; he saw in whom he should recover a heavenly 
life ere he lost the earthly j but after he had tasted of the tree of 
knowledge, he might not taste of the tree of life ; that immortal food 
was not for a mortal stomach 3 yet then did he most savour that 
invisible tree of life, when he was most restrained from the other. O 
Saviour, none but a sinner can relish thee : my taste hath been 
enough seasoned with the forbidden fruit to make it capable of thy 
sweetness ; sharpen thou as well the stomach of my soul by re- 
penting, by believing 3 so shall I eat, and^ in despite of Adam^ live 
for ever. 

The one tree was for confirmation 3 the other for trial : one showed 
him what life he should have 3 the other what knowledge he should 
not desire to have. Alas ! he, that knew all other things, knew not 
this one thing, that he knew enough. How divine a thing is know- 
ledge, whereof even innocency itself is ambitious ! Satan knew what 
he did : if this bait had been gold, or honour, or pie a mre, man had 
contemned it : who can hope to avoid error when even man's perfec- 
tion is mistaken ? He looked for speculative knowledge^ he should 
have looked for experimental : he thought it had been good to 
know evil : good was large enough to have perfected his knowledge, 
and therein his blessedness. 

All that God made was good, and the Maker of them much more 
good 3 they good in their kind, he good in himself. It would not 
content him to know God, and his creatures 3 his curiosity affected to 
know that which God never made, evil of sin, and evil of death, which 
indeed himself made by desiring to know them 3 now we know well 
evil enough, and smart with knowing it. How dear hath this lesson 
cost us, that in some cases it is better to be ignorant 3 and yet do the 
sons of Eve inherit this saucy appetite of their grandmother : how 
many thousand souls miscarry with the presumptuous affectation of 
forbidden knowledge ! O God, thou hast revealed more than we can 
know, enough to make us happy : teach me a sober knowledge, and a 
contented ignorance. 

Paradise was made for man, yet there I see the serpent. What 
marvel is it if my corruption find the serpent in my closet, in my table, 
in my bed, when our holy parents found him in the midst of paradise ! 
No sooner he is entered, but he tempteth : he can no more be idle, 
than harmless. I do not see him at any other tree 5 he knew there 
was no danger in the rest 3 I see him at the tree forbidden. How true 



S6 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Hall. 

a serpent is he in every point ! — in his insinuation to the place, in his 
choice of the tree, in his assault of the woman, in his plausibleness of 
speech to avoid terror, in his question to move doubt, in his reply to 
work distrust, in his pro testation of safety, in his suggestion to envy 
and discontent, in his promise of gain ! 

And if he were so cunning at the first, what shall we think of him 
now, after so many thousand years' experience ? Only thou, O God, 
and those angels that see thy fa:e, are wiser than he. I do not ask 
why, when he left his goodness, thou didst not bereave him of his skill. 
Still thou wouldst have made him an angel, though an evil one : and 
thou knowest how to ordain his craft to thine own glory. I do not 
desire thee to abate of his subtlety, but to make me wise ; let me beg 
it without presumption, make me wiser than Adam : even thine image, 
which he bore, made him not through his own weakness, wise enough 
to obey thee ; thou offeredst him all fruits, and restrainedst but one ; 
Satan offered him but one, and restrained not the rest : when he 
chose rather to be at Satan's feeding than thine, it was just with thee 
to turn him out of thy gates with a curse : why shouldst thou feed a 
rebel at thine own board ? 

And yet we transgress daily, and thou shuttest not heaven against 
us : how is it that we find more mercy than our forefathers ? His 
strength is worthy of severity, our weakness finds pity. That God, 
from whose face he fled in the garden, now makes him with shame to 
fly out of the garden : those angels, that should have kept him, now 
keep the gates of paradise against him ; it is not so easy to recover 
happiness as to keep it, or lose it : yea, the same cause that drove man 
from paradise, hath also withdrawn paradise from the world. 

That fiery sword did not defend it against those waters, wherewith 
the shis of men drowned the glory of that place : neither now do I 
care to seek where that paradise was, which we lost : I know where 
that paradise is, which we must care to seek and hope to find. As 
man was the image of God, so was that earthly paradise an image of 
heaven ; both the images are defaced, both the first patterns are 
eternal : Adam was in the first, and staid not : in the second, is the 
second Adam which said. This day shall thou he with me in paradise. 
There was that chosen vessel, and heard and saw what could not be 
expressed : by how much the third heaven exceeds the richest earth ; 
so much doth that paradise, whereto we aspire, exceed that which we 
have lost. — Contemplations, Book I., Contemplation 3. 



Bacon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 57 



22.— OF TRAVEL. 

[Lord Bacon, 1561 — 1626. 

[Francis Bacon, youngest son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, was born at York House, in the 
Strand, London, January 22, 15 61. From Trinity College, Cambridge, he went to 
Gray's Inn, was called to the bar June 27, 1582, and made a bencher in 1586. Ho 
held various appointments, was returned member for Middlesex in 1592, and was 
knighted in 1603. He was made Attorney-general in 1613, Keeper of the Great Seal 
in 1617, and Lord Chancellor, with the title of Baron Verulam, in 1618. In 1620 
he was created Viscount St. Alban. Having been found guilty of receiving bribes, he 
was, in 1621, deprived of his offices, disqualified for public life, fined ^40,000, and 
imprisoned in the Tower. Lord Bacon, who soon obtained his release, devoted the 
remainder of his life to literary and scientific pursuits, and died at Highgate, near 
London, April 9, 1626. In his will he said, " My name and memory I leave to foreign 
nations, and to my own countrymen, after some time be passed over." The first 
edition of his "Essays," consisting only of ten, appeared in 1597; "The Advance- 
ment of Learning," in two books (afterwards enlarged to nme), in 1605 ; his 
" Wisdom of the Ancients," in Latin, in 1610 ; two books of the "Novum Organon" 
in 1620 J and his " Reign of Henry VII." in 1622. Several collected editions of his 
works have been published. Lord Bacon was the father of English philosophy. 
Hallam (" Literary History," part iii. chap. 2,) says, " No books prior to those ot 
Lord Bacon carried mankind so far on the road to truth ; none have obtained so 
thorough a triumph over arrogant usurpation without seeking to substitute another ; 
and he may be compared to those liberators of nations, who have given them laws by 
which they might govern themselves, and retained no homage but their gratitude." 
Willmott (" Pleasures, Objects, and Advantages of Literature," § xii.), comments 
upon a passage in one of his works in these terms : " Lord Bacon considered that 
invention in young men is livelier than in old, and that imaginations stream into 
their minds more divinely. He has not defined the boundary of youth. His own 
thirty-sixth year had come, when he committed to the press those golden meditations 
which he called Essays. But it is noticeable that his style opened into richer bloom 
with every added summer of thought. Later editions contain passages of beauty not 
found in the earlier ; and his ' Advancement of Learning,' published when he was 
forty-four, beams with the warmest lights of fancy."* Several biographies of Lord 
Bacon have been published. Much information will be found in his "Life" by Mallet, 
published in 1740, by Basil Montagu in 1825, and by R. L. Ellis in 1861.] 

Travel^, in the younger sort, is a part of education 3 in the elder, a 
part of experience. He that travelleth into a country, before he hath 
some entrance into the language, goeth to school, and not to travel. 
That young men travel under some tutor, or grave servant, I allow 
well ; so that he be such a one that hath the language, and hath been 
in the country before, whereby he may be able to tell them what 
things are worthy to be seen in the country where they go,t what 
acquaintances they are to seek, what exercises or discipline the place 
yieldeth. For else young men shall go hooded, and look abroad little. 



* The reader is referred to F. Schlegel's criticism on Lord Bacon at pp. 94-7 of this 
manual. 

t Murray's " Guides" have rendered this unnecessary. 



58 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bacon. 

It is a strange thing, that in sea-voyages, where there is nothing to be 
seen but sky and sea, men should make diaries ; but in land-travel, 
wherein so much is to be observed, for the most part they omit it ; as 
if chance were fitter to be registered than observation. Let diaries 
therefore be brought in use. The things to be seen and observed are, 
the courts of princes, specially when they give audience to am- 
bassadors 3 the courts of justice, while they sit and hear causes ; and 
so of consistories ecclesiastic ; the churches and monasteries, with the 
monuments which are therein extant ; the walls and fortifications of 
cities and towns, and so the havens and harbours 3 antiquities and 
ruins 3 libraries j colleges, disputations and lectures where any are 3 
shipping and navies 3 houses and gardens of state and pleasure, near 
great cities3 armories3 arsenals 3 magazines3 exchanges3 burses 3'* ware- 
houses 3 exercises of horsemanship, fencing, training of soldiers, and 
the like 3 comedies, such whereanto the better sort of persons do re- 
sort 3 treasuries of jewels and robes 3 cabinets and rarities 3 and, to con- 
clude, whatsoever is memorable in the places where they go. After 
all which the tutors or servants ought to make diligent inquiry. As 
for triumphs, masks, feasts, weddings, funerals, capital executions, and 
such shows, men need not to be put in mind of them 3 yet are they 
not to be neglected. If you will have a young man to put his tra\el 
into a little room, and in short time to gather much, this you must do. 
First, as was said, he must have some entrance into the language 
before he goeth. Then he must have such a servant or tutor as 
knoweth the country, as was likewise said. Let him carry with him 
also some cardf or book describing the country where he travelleth 3 
which will be a good key to his inquiry. Let him keep also a diary. 
Let him not stay long in one city or town 3 more or less as the place 
deserveth, but not long 3 nay, when he stayeth in one city or town, let 
him change his lodgings from one end and part of the town to 
another, which is a great adamant of acquaintance. Let him se- 
quester himself from the company of his countrymen, and diet in 
such places where there is good company of the nation where he tra- 
velleth. Let him upon his removes from one place to another procure 
recommendation to some person of quality residmg in the place 
whither he removeth, that he may use his favour in those things he 
desireth to see or know. Thus he may abridge his travel with much 
profit. As for the acquaintance which is to be sought in travel, that 
which is most of all profitable is acquaintance with the secretaries and 
employed men of ambassadors, for so in travelling in one country he 



* The old term for an exchange. 
•f An old term for a chart. It also meant the mariner's compass. 



Miss Austen.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 59 

shall suck the experience of many. Let him also see and visit eminent 
persons in all kinds, which are of great name abroad, that he may be 
able to tell how the life agreeth with fame. For quarrels, they are 
with care and discretion to be avoided ; and let a man beware how he 
keepeth company with choleric and quarrelsome persons, for they will 
engage him into their own quarrels. When a traveller returneth 
home let him not leave the countries where he hath travelled alto- 
gether behind him, but maintain a correspondence by letters with 
those of liis acquaintance which are of most worth. And let his 
travel appear rather in his discourse than in his apparel or gesture ; and 
in his discourse let him be rather advised in his answers than forward 
to tell stories 5 and let it appear that he doth not change his country 
manners for those of foreign parts, but only prick in some flowers of 
that he hath learned abroad into the customs of his own country."^ — 
Essay xviii. 



23.— THE CHOICE OF A NECKLACE. 

[Miss Austen, 1775 — 1817. 

[Jane Austen, born at Steventon, Hants, Dec. 16, 1775, received a very superior 
education under the care of her father, the rector of the parish, a man of considerable 
literary acquirements. Her first novel, " Sense and Sensibility," published anony- 
mously in 181 1, was very successful. It was followed by " Pride and Prejudice," 
" Mansfield Park," and " Emma," the last having been published in 1816. These 
were all published anonymously, and it was not till after her death that any of her 



* It has been remarked by many writers that Bacon makes no allusion to Shake- 
speare, and it has also been asserted that the great dramatist is not even quoted in his 
works. Though the first edition of Hamlet did not appear until 1603, the tragedy was 
acted at a much earlier period, and the " Essay on Travel" was not published until 
1625. It is reasonable to suppose that Bacon, when he wrote this essay, had the advice 
of Polonius to Laertes in his mind : 

" Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried. 
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel ; 
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in, 
Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. 
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice ; 
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. 
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
But not expressed in fancy ; rich, not gaudy : 
For the apparel oft proclaims the man; 
And they in France of the best rank and station 
Are most select and generous, chief in that." 
» Hamlet, act i. sc. 3. 



6o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Miss Austen. 



works appeared with her name. " Northanger Abbej^' and " Persuasion" were both 
published in 1818. Miss Austen died at Winchester, July 24, 181 7. A collected 
edition of her works appeared in Bentle)^s Standard Novels. Sir Walter Scott says 
of this authoress — "That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements, 
and feelings, and characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful I 
ever met with. The big hoiv-ivow strain I can do myself, like any now going; but 
the exquisite touch which renders ordinary common-place things and characters 
interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me. 
What a pity such a gifted creature died so early !" Some account of this authoress 
will be found in an article by Dr. Whately in the " Quarterly Review," vol. xxiv.] 

Thursday was the day of the ball, and on Wednesday morning, 
Fanny, still unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, 
determined to seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply 
to Mrs. Grant and her sister, whose acknowledged taste would cer- 
tainly bear her blameless ; and as Edmund and William were gone to 
Northampton, and she had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise 
out, she walked down to the Parsonage without much fear of wanting 
an opportunity for private discussion ; and the privacy of such a dis- 
cussion was a most important part of it to Fanny, being more than 
half ashamed of her own solicitude. 

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just 
setting out to call on her, and as it seemed to her, that her friend, 
though obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her 
walk, she explained her business at once, and observed, that if she 
would be so kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as 
well without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by 
the application, and after a moment's thought urged Fanny's returning 
with her in a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed 
their going up into her room, where they might have a comfortable 
coze, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together in 
the drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny ; and with a 
great deal of gratitude on her side for such ready and kind attention, 
they proceeded in-doors, and up-stairs, and were soon deep in the 
interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her 
all her best judgment and taste, made everything easy by her sugges- 
tions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her encouragement. 
The dress being settled in all its grander parts — " But what shall you 
have by way of necklace ?" said Miss Crawford. " Shall not you 
wear your brother's cross ?" And as she spoke she was undoing a 
small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. 
Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point ; she did not 
know how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She 
was answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and 
being requested to choose from among several gold chains and neck- 



Miss Austen.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 6i 

laces. Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was pro- 
vided, and such the object of her intended visit : and in the kindest 
manner she now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for 
her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the scruples 
which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at 
the proposal. 

'*^You see what a collection I have," said she, '"'more by half 
than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer 
nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and 
oblige me." 

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. 
But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much 
affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the 
cross, and the ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny 
found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride 
or indifference, or some other littleness ; and having with modest re- 
luctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She 
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable -, 
and was determined in her choice at last,- by fancying there was 
one necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It 
was of gold, prettily worked ; and though Fanny would have pre- 
ferred a longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, 
she hoped, in fixing on this, to be choosing what Miss Crawford least 
wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation, and 
hastened to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and 
making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say 
against its becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, 
was exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would 
rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this 
was an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants 
with a kindness which proved her a real friend. ^' When I wear this 
necklace I shall always think of you," added she, '^ and feel how very 
kind you were." 

" You must think of somebody else, too, when you wear that neck- 
lace," replied Miss Crawford. ''You must think of Henry, for it was 
his choice in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace 
I make over to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. 
[t is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your 
mind without bringing the brother too." 

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned 
the present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another 
person, of a brother too, impossible ! it must not be ! and with an 
eagerness and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she 



62 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Miss Austen. 

laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved 
either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she 
had never seen a prettier consciousness. ^'My dear child/' said she, 
laughing, **^ what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will 
claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly 
by it ? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered by 
seeing round your lovely throat, an ornament which his money pur- 
chased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in 
the world ? or perhaps — looking archly — you suspect a confederacy 
between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and 
at his desire ?" 

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. 

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, more seriously but without 
at all believing her, " to convince me that you suspect no trick, and 
are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take 
the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my 
brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, 
as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He 
is always giving me something or other. I have such innumerable 
presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value, or for 
him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I 
have worn it six times : it is very pretty, but I never think of it 5 and 
though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my 
trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I 
have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession 
than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle 
is not worth half so many words." 

Fanny dared not make any further opposition ; and with renewed 
but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an 
expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied 
with. 

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change 
of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her ; 
he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had 
been to her cousins : he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her 
trancjuillity as he had cheated them ; and whether he might not have 

some concern in this necklace She could not be convinced that 

he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as 
a woman and a friend. 

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she 
had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now 
walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares 
since her treading that path before. — Mansfield Park, c. xxvi. 



Merivale.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 63 



24.— THE BURNING OF ROME, a.d. 817. 

[Rev. C. Merivale, 1808. 

[Charles Merivale, born in 1808, was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge, 
of which he was afterwards fellow and tutor. He was Select Preacher to the 
University in 1838-40, and one of the preachers at Whitehall in 1840-42. The 
first two volumes of his " History of the Romans under the Empire," were pub- 
lished in 1850; the third volume appeared in 185 1, the fourth and fifth volumes in 
1856, the sixth volume in 1858, and the seventh in 1862. A cheap edition, in eight 
vols., was published in 1865. The Rev. C. Merivale was appointed chaplain to the 
House of Commons, Feb. 4, 1863.] 

But in the midst of these horrors, which steeped in the same fearful 
guilt the people and tlie prince together, Providence was preparing an 
awful chastisement 3 and was about to overwhelm Rome, like the 
cities of the Plain, in a sheet of retributive fire. Crowded, as the 
mass of the citizens were, in their close wooden dwelling-chambers, 
accidents were constantly occurring which involved whole streets and 
quarters of the city in wide-spreading conflagrations, and the efforts of 
the night-watch to stem^ these outbursts of fire, with few of the ap- 
phances, and little perhaps even of the discipline, of our modern 
police, were but imperfectly eft'ectual. But the greatest of all the fires 
which desolated Rome was that which broke out on the 19th of July, 
in the year 817, the tenth of Nero, which began at the eastern end of 
the Circus, abutting on the valley between the Palatine and the Caelian 
hills. Against the outer walls of this edifice leaned a mass of 
wooden booths and stores filled chiefly with combustible articles. The 
wind from tlie east drove the flames towards the corner of the Palatine, 
whence they forked in two directions, following the draught of the 
valleys. At neither point were they encountered by the massive 
masonry of halls or temples, till they had gained such head, that the 
mere intensity of the heat crumbled brick and stone like paper. The 
Circus itself was filled from end to end with wooden galleries, along 
which the fire coursed with a speed wl:iich defied all check and pur- 
suit. The flames shot up to the heights adjacent, and swept the 
basements of many noble structures on the Palatine and Aventine. 
Again they plunged into the lowest levels of the city, the dense habi- 
tations and narrow winding streets of the Velabrum and Forum 
Boarium, till stopped by the river and the walls. At the same time 
another torrent rushed towards the Velia and the Esquiline, and sucked 
up all the dwellings within its reach ; till it was finally arrested by the 
cliffs beneath the gardens of Maecenas. Amidst the horror and con- 
fusion of the scene, the smoke, the blaze, the din and the scorching 
heat, with half the population, bond and free, cast loose and houseless 
into the streets, ruffians were seen to thrust blazing brands into the 



64 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Merivaie. 

buildings, who affirmed, when seized by the indignant sufferers, that 
they were acting with orders ; and the crime, which was probably the 
desperate resource of slaves and robbers, was imputed by fierce suspi- 
cions to the government itself. 

At such a moment of sorrow and consternation, every trifle is seized 
to confirm the suspicion of foul play. The flames, it seems, had sub- 
sided after raging for six days, and the wretched outcasts were begin- 
ning to take breath and visit the ruins of their habitations, when a 
second conflagration burst out in a different quarter. This fire com- 
menced at the point where the iEmilian gardens of Tigellinus abutted 
on the outskirts of the city beneath the Pincian hill ; and it was on 
Tigellinus himself, the object already ol popular scorn if not of anger, 
that the suspicion now fell. The wind, it seems, had now changed, 
for the fire spread from the north-west towards the Quirinal and the 
Viminal, destroying the buildings, more sparsely planted, of the 
quarter denominated the Via Lata. Three days exhausted the fury 
of this second visitation, in which the loss of life and property was 
less, but the edifices it overthrew were generally of greater interest, 
shrines and temples of the gods, and halls and porticos devoted to the 
amusement or convenience of the people. Altogether the disaster, 
whether it sprang from accident or design, involved nearly the whole 
of Rome. Of the fourteen regions of the city, three, we are assured, 
were entirely destroyed; while seven others were injured more or less 
severely : four only of the whole number escaped unhurt. The fire 
made a complete clearance of the central quarters, leaving, perhaps, 
but few public buildings erect even on the Palatine and Aventine ; but 
it was, for the most part, hemmed in by the crests of the surrounding 
eminences, and confined to the seething crater which had been the 
cradle of the Roman people. The day of its outburst, it was remarked, 
was that of the first burning of Rome by the Gauls, and some curious 
calculators computed that the addition of an equal number of years, 
months, and days together, would give the complete period which had 
elapsed in the long interval of her greatness. Of the number of 
houses and insulne destroyed, Tacitus does not venture to hazard a 
statement ; he only tantalizes us by his slender notice of the famous 
fanes and monuments which sank in the common ruin. Among them 
were the temple of Diana, which Servius Tullius had erected,- the 
shrine and altar of Hercules, consecrated by Evander, as affirmed in 
the tradition impressed upon us by Virgil ; the Romulean temple of 
Jupiter Stator, the remembrance of which thrilled the soul of the 
banished Ovid ; the little Regia of Numa, which armed so many a 
sarcasm against the pride of consuls and imperators; the sanctuar}'" v^f 
Vesta herself, with the Palladium, the Penates, and the ever-glowing 



Marco Polo.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 5 

hearth of the Roman people. But the loss of these decayed, though 
venerable objects was not the worst disaster. Many an unblemished 
masterpiece of the Grecian pencil, or chisel, or graver, — the prize of 
victor}^, — w^as devoured by the flames ; and amidst all the splendour 
with w^hich Rome rose afterwards from her ashes, old men could 
lament to tlie historian the irreparable sacrifice of tliese ancient glories. 
Writings and documents of no common interest may have perished at 
the same time irrecoverably ; and with them^ trophies, images, and 
family devices. At a moment when the heads of patrician houses were 
faUing rapidly by the sword^ the loss of such memorials was the more 
deplorable 5 and from this epoch we may date the decay, which we 
shall soon discover, in the domestic traditions of the nobles. — History 
of the Romans under the Empire, chap. liii. 



25.— THE ISLAND OF ZIPANGU OR JAPAN. 

[Marco Polo, 1254 — 1324. 

[This celebrated Venetian traveller, born at Venice about 1254, accompanied his 
father, Niccolo Polo, and his uncle into Central Asia, and reached the court of Kubla'i 
Khan in 1275. Kublai, who took a great interest in the youthful Marco, sent him 
on several missions to China and India^ and he is said to have been the first Euro- 
pean who visited China Proper. The three Polos returned to Venice in 1 295. Marco, 
who obtained command of a galley, was captured by the Genoese in their victory off 
the island of Curzola, September 8, 1296. In his captivity Marco related his travels, 
which were taken down by a fellow prisoner named Rusticbello, and in 1298 the 
manuscript was circulated. His narrative was very popular, and has been translated 
into most modern languages. Marco Polo died at Venice about 1324. The best 
English edition is the translation of Marsden, edited by T. Wright, and published in 
Bohn's Antiquarian Library in 1854. A biography of Marco Polo in Italian is 
prefixed to Count Baldelli's edition of his works, published at Florence in 1827, and 
a good account of this distmgaished traveller is given in the introduction to Wright's 
English edition.] 

ZiPANGU"^ is an island in the eastern ocean, situated at the distance of 
about fifteen hundred milesf from the mainland, or coast of Manji. It 
is of considerable size j its inhabitants have fair complexions, are well 
made, and are civilized in their manners. Their religion is the worship of 
idols. They are independent of every foreign power, and governed 
only by their own kings. They have gold in the greatest abundance, 
its sources being inexhaustible, but as the king does not allow of its 
being exported, few merchants visit the country, nor is it frequented 
by much shipping from other parts. To this circumstance we are to 



* Zipangu, Zipangri, and Cimpagu are names by which the islands, which we terra 
Japan, were then known. 

f Chinese miles or li. 
F 



66 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Marco Polo. 

attribute the extraordinary richness of the sovereign's palace, accord- 
ing to what we are told by those who have access to the place. The 
entire roof is covered with a plating of gold, in the same manner as 
we cover houses, or more properly churches, with lead. The ceilings 
of the halls are of the same precious metal 3 many of the apartments 
have small tables of pure gold, of considerable thickness ; and the 
windows have also golden ornaments. So vast, indeed, are the riches 
of the palace, that it is impossible to convey an idea of them. In this 
island there are pearls also, in large quantities, of a red (pink) colour, 
round in shape, and of great size, equal in value to, or even exceeding 
that of the white pearls. It is customary with one part of the inhabi- 
tants to bury their dead, and with another part to burn them.* The 
former have a practice of putting one of these pearls into the mouth 
of the corpse. There are also found there a number of precious 
stones. 

Of so great celebrity was the wealth of this island, that a desire was 
excited in the breast of the grand khan Kublai', now reigning, to make 
the conquest of it, and to annex it to his dominions. In order to 
effect this, he fitted out a numerous fleet, and embarked a large body 
of troops, under the command of two of his principal officers, one of 
whom was named Abbacatan, and the other Vonsancin. The expedi- 
tion sailed from the ports of Zai-tun and Kin-sai,t and crossing the 
intermediate sea, reached the island in safety ; but in consequence of a 
jealousy that arose between the two commanders, one of whom treated 
the plans of the other with contempt and resisted the execution of his 
orders, they were unable to gain possession of any city or fortified 
place, with the exception of one only, which was carried by assault, 
the garrison having refused to surrender. Directions were given for 
putting the whole to the sword, and in obedience thereto the heads of 
all were cut off, excepting of eight persons, who, by the efficacy of a 
diabolical charm, consisting of a jewel or amulet introduced into the 
right arm, between the skin and the flesh, were rendered secure from 



* Two religions prevail among the Japanese; the ancient, or that of the Sintos, who 
worship spirits, called by them sin and kami ; and the modern, or that of the Buds- 
dos, worshippers of the Indian Buddha, under the names of Fo-to-ke and Budsd. 
Kaempfer (Hist, of Japan, vol. i. p. 213) says: — " One thing remains worthy of ob- 
serving, which is, that many, and perhaps the greatest part, of those who in their 
lifetime constantly professed the Sintos religion, and even some of the Siutosjus 
or moralists, recommend their souls, on their death-bed, to the care of the Budsdo 
clergy, desiring that the 7iamanda might be sung for them, and their bodies burned and 
buried after the manner of the Budsdoists. The adherents of the Sintos religion do 
not believe the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmigration of souls, although most 
universally received by the Eastern nations." 

t Zai-tun probably meant Amoy, and Kin-sai Ningpo or Chusan. 



Marco Polo,] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 67 

the efl^cts of iron, either to kill or wound. Upon this discovery being 
made, they were beaten with a heavy wooden club, and presently 
died.* 

It happened, after some time, that a north wind began to blow with 
great force, and the ships of the Tartars, \^-hich lay near the shore of 
the island, were driven foul of each othen It was determined there- 
upon, in a council of the othcers on board, tliat they ought to disen- 
gage themselves from the land : and accordingly, as soon as the troops 
were re-embarked, tliey stood out to sea. The gale, how ever, increased 
to so violent a degree that a number of the vessels foundered. The 
people belonging to them, by floating upon pieces of the A\Teck, saved 
themselves upon an island lying about four miles from the coast of 
Zipangu. The other ships, whicii, not being so near to the land, did 
not sutler from the storm, and in which the t\^'0 chiefs were em- 
barked, together with the principal otficers, or those whose rank 
entitled them to command a hundred thousand or ten thousand men, 
directed their course homewards, and returned to the grand khan. 
Those of the Tartars who remained upon the island ^\ here they were 
wrecked, and who amounted to about thirt}" thousand men, finding 
themselves left without shipping, abandoned by their leaders, and 
ha\"ing neither arms nor provisions, expected nothing less than to 
become captives or to perish; especially as the island afforded no habi- 
tations where they could take shelter and refresh themselves. As soon 
as tlie gale ceased and the sea became smooth and calm, tlie people from 
the main island of Zipangu came over with a large force, in numerous 
boats, in order to make prisoners of these shipwrecked Tartars, and, 
ha\ing landed, proceeded in search of them, but in a straggling, dis- 
orderly manner. The Tartars, on their part, acted with prudent cir- 
cumspection, and, being concealed from view by some high land in 
the centre of tlie island, whilst the enemy were hurrying in pursuit of 
them by one road, made a circuit of the coast by another, ^hich 
brought them to die place where the fleet of boats was at anchor. 
Finding these all abandoned, but with their colours flying, they 
instantly seized them, and, pushing ofl^" from the island, stood tor the 
principal cit}" of Zipangu, into which, from the appearance of the 
colours, they were sulfered to enter unmolested.f Here they found few 
ot die inhabitants besides women, \^'honi they retained for their own 
use, and drove out all others. When the king \\-as apprised of what 



* The idea of being rendered invulnerable by the use of amulets is common 
amongst the natives of the Eastern islands. 

t Osakka the ancient capital was much frequented by Chinese shipping. According 
P. Gaubil, the island was Ping-hou or Firando, near the city of Nangasaki. 

F 2 



68 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Washington Irving. 

had taken place, he was much afflicted, and immediately gave direc- 
tions for a strict blockade of the city, which was so effectual that not 
any person was suffered to enter or to escape from it, during six 
months that tlie siege continued. At the expiration of this time, the 
Tartars, despairing of succour, surrendered upon the condition of their 
lives being spared. These events took place in the course of the year 
1264.* The grand khan having learned some years after that the 
unfortunate issue of the expedition was to be attributed to the dissen- 
sion between the two commanders, caused the head of one of them to 
be cut off 3 the otlier he sent to the savage island of Zorza,t where it 
is the custom to execute criminals in the following manner : — They are 
wrapped round both arms, in the hide of a buffalo fresh taken from 
the beast, which is sewed tight. As this dries, it compresses the body 
to such a degree that the sufferer is incapable of moving or in any 
manner helping himself, and thus miserably perishes. | — The Travels 
of Marco Polo, b. iii. ch. 2. 



26.— SIR WALTER SCOTT AT ABBOTSFORD. 

[Washington Irving, 1783 — 1859. 
[Washington Irving was born at New York, April 3, 1783, and received his 
education at home. His health being delicate he left America in 1802, and spent 
three years in \ isiting Italy, France, and England. On his return Irving studied 
liw, and was admitted, though he never practised. A share was given him in a 
mercantile business established by his father, but failure ensued, and Irving adopted 
literature as a profession. In 1829 Irving was appointed Secretary of Legation at 
London. In 1832 he returned to America, and was appointed minister pleni- 
potentiary to the Court of Spain in 1841. He returned to America in 1846, and 
took up his residence on an estate which he had purchased on the Hudson. In 
early life Irving contributed largely to various American periodicals. His first work, 
" The History of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker," appeared in New York in 
1809. "The Sketch Book," written in England, was published in New York in 
1818. " Bracebridge Hall" appeared in 1822. "The History of the Life and 
Voyages of Christopher Columbus" appeared in London in 1828; " Abbotsford and 
Newstead Abbey" in 1835 j ^"^ the first volume of his " Life of Washington" in 
1855; vols. ii. and iii. appeared in 1856, vol. iv. in 1857, and vol. v. in 1859. 



* This ought to be 1 284. 

t It is not known what island is meant, though it is supposed to be in one of the 
lukes of Tartary. 

X This must have been a Tartar, not a Chinese mode of punishment. Pottinger 
(Travels in Beloochistan and Sinde, p. 389) relates that it was inflicted by Abd-al- 
mulik, khalif of Baghdad, upon one of his generals, who was accused by some captive 
princesses of a heinous oflfence. Pottinger says : — " That monarch was highly en- 
raged at this suppo'^ed insult, and sent an order to the general who was second in 
wnimand, to sew Mohummud bin Kasim into a raw hide, and thus forward him to 
the presence . . . Tliough consciously innocent, he allowed the unjust and cruel 
punisliment of his sovereign to be inflicted on himself. He died the third day after." 



Washington Irving.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 69 

A collected edition of his works has been published in England by Bohn. 
Washington Irving, who was a very prolific writer, died Nov. 28, 1859. ^^^ ^^*^j ^Y 
P. M. Irving, appeared in 1862.] 

The conversation of Scott was frank^ hearty, picturesque, and 
dramatic. During the time of my visit, he inclined to the comic 
rather than the grave, in his anecdotes and stories ; and such I v^as 
told, was his general inclination. He relished a joke, or a trait of 
humour in social intercourse, and laughed with right good will. He 
talked not for effect, nor disj^lay, but from the flow of his spirits, the 
stores of his memory, and the vigour of his imagination. He had a 
natural turn for narration, and his narratives and descriptions were 
without effort, yet wonderfully graphic. He placed the scene before 
you like a picture ; he gave the dialogue with the appropriate dialect 
or peculiarities, and described the appearance and characters of his 
personages with that spirit and felicity evinced in his writings. Indeed, 
his conversation reminded me continually of his novels ; and it seemed 
to me that, during the whole time I was with him, he talked enough 
to fill volumes, and that they could not have been filled more delight- 
fully. 

He was as good a listener as talker, appreciating everything that 
others said, however humble might be their rank or pretensions, and 
was quick to testify his perception of any point in their discourse. He 
arrogated nothing to himself, but was perfectly unassuming and unpre- 
tending, entering with heart and soul into the business, or pleasure, or, 
I had almost said, folly, of the hour and the company. No one's 
concerns, no one's thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes and 
pleasures, seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the 
companion of those with whom he happened to be, that they forgot 
for a time his vast superiority, and only recollected and wondered 
when all was over, that it was Scott with whom they had been on 
such familiar terms, and in whose society they had felt so perfectly at 
tlieir ease. 

It was delightful to observe the generous spirit in which he spoke of 
all his literary contemporaries, quoting the beauties of their works ; 
and this, too, with respect to persons with whom he might have been 
supposed to be at variance in literature or politics. Jeffrey, it was 
thought, had ruffied his plumes in one of his reviews, yet Scott spoke 
of him in terms of high and warm eulogy, both as an author and as a 
man. 

His humour in conversation, as in his works, was genial and free from 
all causticity. He had a quick perception of faults and foibles, but he 
looked upon human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what was 
good and pleasant, tolerating what was frail, and pitying what was evil. 



70 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [T. Campbell. 



It is this beneficent spirit which gives such an air of bonhomie to 
Scott's humour throughout all his works. He played with the foibles 
and errors of his fellow-beings, and presented them in a thousand 
whimsical and characteristic lights ; but the kindness and generosity of 
his nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I do not recollect a 
sneer throughout his conversation any more than there is throughout 
his works. 

Such is a rough sketch of Scott, as I saw him in private life, not 
merely at the time of the visit here narrated, but in the casual inter- 
course of subsequent years. Of his public character and merits all the 
world can judge. His works have incorporated themselves with the 
thoughts and concerns of the whole civilized world for a quarter of a 
century, and have had a controlling influence over the age in which he 
lived. But when did a human being ever exercise an influence more 
salutary and benignant ? Who is there that, on looking back over a 
great portion of his life, does not find the genius of Scott administering 
to his pleasures, beguiling his cares, and soothing his lonely sorrows ? 
Who does not still regard his works as a treasury of pure enjoyment, 
an armoury to which to resort in time of need, to find weapons 
with which to fight off the evils and the griefs of life ? For my own 
part, in periods of dejection, I have hailed the announcement of a new 
work from his pen as an earnest of certain pleasure in store for me, 
and have looked forward to it as a traveller in a waste looks to a green 
spot at a distance, where he feels assured of solace and refreshment. 
When I consider how much he has thus contributed to the better 
hours of my past existence, and how independent his works still make 
me, at times, of all the world for my enjoyment, I bless my stars that 
cast my lot in his days, to be thus cheered and gladdened by the out- 
pourings of his genius. I consider it one of the greatest advantages 
that I have derived from my literary career, that it has elevated me 
into genial communion with such a spirit ; and as a tribute of gratitude 
for his friendship, and veneration for his memory, I cast this humble 
stone upon his cairn, which will soon, I trust, be piled aloft with the 
contributions of abler hands. — Jbhotsford. 



27.— THE LAST MAN. 

[T. Campbell, 1777 — 1844. 

[Thomas Campbell, born at Glasgow, July 27, 1777, was educated at the university 
of that city. His first poem, " Pleasures of Hope," was published at Edinburgh, 
where the poet was then residing, in April, 1799. Campbell settled in London in 
1803, in the autumn of which year he married his cousin. Miss Matilda Sinclair. A 
pension of 200/. per annum was conferred upon him in 1806. "Gertrude of 



T. Campbell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 71 

Wyoming^' appeared in 1809. He wrote several works^ and contributed largely to 
the periodical literature of the day. In 18 12, Campbell gave six lectures on poetry 
at the Ro)"al Institution, and, in 1827, he was elected rector of the University of 
Glasgow. In 1820 he undertook the editorship of the "New Monthly Magazine," 
and retained the appointment till 1830, In 1831 he established the " Metropolitan 
Magazine."' Campbell died at Boulogne June 15, 1844, and was buried in West- 
minster Abbey July 3. A life of the poet, by Dr. Beattie, with his letters and 
several unpublished poems, appeared in 1848.] 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom. 

The Sun himself must die. 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its Immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep. 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Ado\^Ti the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould. 
That shall Creation's death behold. 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The Sun"s eye had a sickly glare. 

The Earth with age was wan. 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in. fight, — the brands* 
Still rusted in their bony hands 3 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread j 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 

Yet, prophetlike, that lone one stood. 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the -v^'ood 

As if a storm pass'd by, 
Saying, we are twins in death, proud Sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis mercy bids thee go. 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears. 

That shall no lonsrer flow. 



* Swords. Nares says the word brand is used for sword, in allusion to the original 
glare oi flame, to which a sword is often compared. 



72 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [T. Campbell. 

What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth. 

The vassals of his will j — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. 
Thou dim discrowned king of day : 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 

Entail'd on human hearts. 

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men. 
Nor with thy rising beams recal 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back. 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd. 
Or mown in battle by the sword. 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

E'en I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire j 
Test of all sumless agonies. 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurghng breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — 
The majesty of Darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark j 
Yet think not. Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! - 

No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine. 

By Him recall'd to breath. 
Who captive led captivity. 
Who robb'd the grave of Victory, — 

And took the sting from Death ! 



I 



South.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 73 

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adarn's race. 

On Earth's sepulciiral clod. 
The dark'ning universe defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



28.— MAN BEFORE THE FALL. 

[Rev. R. South, 1633 — 1716. 
[Robert South, the son ofa London merchant, born at Hackney, 1633, and educated 
at Westminster School, and Christchurch, Oxford, was made university orator in 1660. 
South, having been appointed chaplain to Lord Chancellor Clarendon, was made 
prebendary of Westminster in 1663, and canon of Christchurch, Oxford, in 1670. 
He disapproved of the Romanizing tendencies of James IL, and refused preferment 
under William IIL Though South entered keenly into controversy, and in 1693 
published " Animadversions on Sherlock's Vindication of the Doctrine of the 
Trinity," he is most celebrated for his sermons, "which," says Hallam (Lit. Hist., 
part iv. chap. 2), " begin, in order of date, before the Restoration, and come down 
to nearly the end of the century. They were much celebrated at the time, and 
retain a portion of their renown." South died July 8, 17 16, and was buried in 
Westminster Abbey. A Life of South is prefixed to his " Posthumous Works," 
published in 171 7.] 

First, for the noblest faculty of the mind, the understanding ; it was 
then sublime, clear, and aspiring, and, as it were, the soul's upper 
region, lofty and serene, free from the vapours and disturbances of 
the inferior affections. It was the leading, controlling faculty j all 
the passions wore the colours of reason 3 it did not so much persuade 
as command ; it was not consul, but dictator. Discourse was then 
almost as quick as intuition j it was nimble in proposing, firm in con- 
cluding ; it could sooner determine than now it can dispute. Like the 
sun, it had both light and agility ; it knew no rest, but in motion ; no 
quiet but in activity. It did not so properly apprehend, as irradiate the 
object j not so much find, as make things intelligible. It did arbitrate 
upon the several reports of sense, and all the varieties of imagination -, 
not like a drowsy judge, only hearing, but also directing their verdict. 
In sum, it was vegete, quick, and lively -, open as the day, untainted as 
the morning, full of the innocence and sprightliness of youth ; it gave 
the soul a bright and a full view into all things ; and was not only a 
window, but itself the prospect. Briefly, there is as much difference 



74 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [South. 

between the clear representations of the understanding then, and the 
obscure discoveries it makes now, as there is between the prospect of a 
casement and of a key-hole. 

Now, as there are two great functions of the soul, contemplation 
and practice, according to that general division of objects, some of 
which only entertain our speculation, others also employ our actions j 
so the understanding with relation to these, not because of any distinc- 
tion in the faculty itself, is accordingly divided into speculative and 
practick^ in both of which the image of God was then apparent. 

I. For the understanding speculative. There are some general 
maxims and notions in the mind of man, which are the rules of dis- 
course, and the basis of all philosophy. As, that the same thing cannot 
at the same time be, and not be ; that the whole is bigger tlian a part 3 
that two proportions equal to a third, must also be equal to one another. 
Aristotle, indeed, affirms the mind to be at first a mere rasa tabula ; 
and that these notions are not ingenite,'^ and imprinted by the finger 
of Nature, but by the latter and more languid impressions of sense j 
being only the reports of observation, and the result of so many re- 
peated experiments. 

But to this I answer two things. 

(i.) That these notions are universal j and what is universal must 
needs proceed from some universal, constant principle, the same in all 
particulars, which here can be nothing else but human nature. 

(2.) These cannot be infused by observation, because they are the 
rules by which men take their first apprehensions and observations of 
things, and, therefore, in order of nature must needs precede them : as 
the being of the rule must be before its application to the thing directed 
by it. From whence it follows, that these were notions, not descend- 
ing from us, but born with us ; not our oft^spring, but our brethren : 
and (as I may so say) such as we were taught without the help of a 
teacher. 

Now, it was Adam's happiness in the state of innocence to have 
these clear and unsullied. 

He came into the world a philosopher, which sufficiently appeared 
by his writing the nature of things upon their names 3 he could view 
essences in themselves, and read forms without the comment of their 
respective properties : he could see consequents yet dormant in their 
principles, and effects yet unborn and in the womb of their causes : 
his understanding could almost pierce into future contingents, his con- 
jectures improving even to prophecy, or the certainties of prediction 3 



Inborn. 



South.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 75 

till his fall, it was ignorant of nothing but sin ; or at least it rested in 
the notion, without the smart of the experiment. Could any difficulty 
have been proposed, the resolution would have been as early as the pro- 
posal ; it could not have had time to settle into doubt. Like a better 
Archimedes, the issue of all his inquiries was an evp7]ica, an evprjKa, the 
oifspring of his brain without the sweat of his brow. Study was not 
then a duty, night- wa tellings were needless ; the light of reason wanted 
not the assistance of a candle. This is the doom of fallen man, to 
labour in the fire, to seek truth in pro/undo, to exhaust his time and 
impair his health, and perhaps to spin out his days, and himself, into one 
pitiful, controverted conclusion. There was then no poring, no struggling 
with memory, no straining for invention : his faculties were quick 
and expedite 3 they answered without knocking, they were ready upon 
the first summons, there was freedom and firmness in all their opera- 
tions. I confess, it is as difficult for us, who date our ignorance from 
our first being, and were still bred up with the same infirmities about 
us with which we were born, to raise our thoughts and imagination to 
those intellectual perfections that attended our nature in the time of 
innocence ; as it is for a peasant bred up in the obscurities of a cottage, 
to fancy in his mind the unseen splendours of a court. But by rating 
positives by their privatives, and other arts of reason, by which discourse 
supplies the want of the reports of sense, we may collect the excellency 
of the understanding then, by the glorious remainders of it now, and 
guess at the stateliness of the building, by the magnificence of its ruins. 
All those arts, rarities, and inventions, which vulgar minds gaze at, the 
ingenious pursue, and aU admire, are but the reliques of an intellect 
defaced with sin and time. We admire it now, only as antiquaries do 
a piece of old coin, for the stamp it once bore, and not for those va- 
nishing lineaments and disappearing draughts that remain upon it at 
present. And certainly that must needs have been very glorious, the 
decays of which are so admirable. He that is comely, when old and 
decrepit, surely was very beautiful when he was young. An Aristotle 
was but the rubbish of an Adam, and Athens but the rudiments of 
Paradise. 

2. The image of God was no less resplendent in that which we call 
man's practical understanding 3 namely that storehouse of the soul, 
in which are treasured up the rules of action and the seeds of morality. 
Where, we must observe, that many who deny all connate notions in 
the speculative intellect, do yet admit them in this. Now of this sort 
are these maxims ; that God is to be worshipped ; that parents are to 
be honoured ; that a man's word is to be kept, and the like : which, 
being of universal influence, as to the regulation of the behaviour and 



76 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [South. 

converse of mankind, are the ground of all virtue and civility, and the 
foundation of religion. 

It was the privilege of Adam innocent, to have these notions also 
firm and untainted, to carry his monitor in his bosom, his law in his 
heart, and to have such a conscience as might be its own casuist : and 
certainly those actions must needs be regular, where there is an identity 
between the rule and the faculty. His own mind taught him 
a due dependance upon God, and chalked out to him the just 
proportions and measures of behaviour to his fellow creatures. 
He had no catechism but the creation, needed no study but 
reflection, read no book, but the volume of the world, and that too, 
not for rules to work by, but for objects to work upon. Reason was 
his tutor, and first principles his magna moralia, the decalogue of 
Moses was but a transcript, not an original. AH the laws of nations, 
and wise decrees of states, the statutes of Solon, and the twelve tables, 
were but a paraphrase upon this standing rectitude of nature, this 
fruitful principle of justice, that was ready to run out, and enlarge 
itself into suitable determinations, upon all emergent objects and occa- 
sions. Justice then w^as neither blind to discern, nor lame to execute. 
It was not subject to be imposed upon by a deluded fancy, nor yet to 
be bribed by a glozing appetite, for an utile or jucundum * to turn the 
balance to a false and dishonest sentence. In all its directions of the 
inferior faculties, it conveyed its suggestions with clearness, and en- 
joined them with power j it had the passions in perfect subjection ; and 
though its command over them was but suasive and political, yet it 
had the force of coaction, and despotical. It was not then, as it is 
now, when the conscience has only power to disapprove, and to protest 
against the exorbitances of the passions -, and rather to wish, than make 
them otherwise. The voice of conscience now is low and weak, 
chastising the passions, as old Eli did his lustful, domineering sons; 
Not so, my sons, not so; but the voice of conscience then was not, this 
should, or this ought to be done ; but, this must, this shall be done. 
It spoke like a legislator ; the thing spoke was a law 3 and the manner 
of speaking it a new obligation. 

In short, there was as great a disparity between the practical dictates 
of the understanding then and now, as there is between empire and 
advice, counsel and command, between a companion and a governor. 
— Sermon, on Gen. i.. 27. 



A useful or pleasing. 



Warton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 77 

29,— ORIGIN OF ROMANCE. 

T. Warton, 1728 — 1790. 
[Thomas Wartok, second son of Dr. Warton, of Magdalen College, Oxford, was 
born at Basingstoke, in 1728. Having received the rudiments of education at home 
he was sent to Trinity College, Oxford, and obtained a fellowship in 175 1. He 
wrote several short poems and essays, and published " Observations on the Faerie 
Queene of Spenser" in 1754. He obtained the professorship of poetry in 1757, and 
the first volume of his " History of English Poetr}'" was published in 1774. The 
second appeared in 1778, and the third in 1781. A new edition of poems, collected 
by himself, appeared in 1777. He was made poet-laureate and Camden professor of 
History in 1785, and died May 21, 1790. His life by R. Mant, is prefixed to an 
edition of his poems, published in 1802.] 

The ideas of chiyalry, in an imperfect degree^ had been of old 
established among the Gothic tribes. The fashion of challenging to 
single combat^ tlie pride of seeking dangerous adventures, and the 
spirit of avenging and protecting the fair sex, seem to have been pecu- 
har to the Northern nations in the most uncultivated state of Europe. 
All these customs were afterwards encouraged and confirmed by cor- 
responding circumstances in the feudal constitution. At length the 
Crusades excited a new spirit of enterprise, and introduced into 
the courts and ceremonies of European princes a higher degree of 
splendour and parade, caught from the riches and magnificence of 
eastern cities. These oriental expeditions established a taste for 
hyperbohcal description, and propagated an infinity of marvellous 
tales, which men returning from distant countries easily imposed on 
credulous and ignorant minds. The unparalleled emulation with 
which the nations of Christendom universally embraced this holy 
cause, the pride with \^'hich emperors, kings, barons, earls, bishops, 
and knio[-hts, strove to excel each other on this interesting^ occasion, 
not only in prowess and heroism, but in sumptuous equipages, 
gorgeous banners, armorial cognisances, splendid pavilions, and other 
expensive articles of a similar nature, diffused a love of war, and a 
fondness for military pomp. Hence their very diversions became 
warlike, and the martial enthusiasm of the times appeared in tilts and 
tournaments. These practices and opinions co-operated with the 
kindred superstitions of dragons, dwarfs, fairies, giants, and enchanters, 
which the traditions of the Gothic scalders had already planted^ and 
produced that extraordinary species of composition which has been 
called Romance. 

Before these expeditions into the East became fashionable, the prin- 
cipal and leading subjects of the old fablers were the achievements of 
King Arthur with his knights of the round table, and of Charlemagne 
with his twelve peers. But in the romances written after the holy war, 
a new set of champions, of conquests and of countries, were introduced. 



78 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Warton. 

Trebizonde took place of Rouncevalles. and Godfrey of Bulloigne, 
Solyman, Nouraddin, the caliphs, the souldans, and the cities of ^gypt 
and Syria, became the favourite topics. The troubadours of Provence, 
an idle and unsettled race of men, took up arms, and followed tlieir 
barons in prodigious multitudes to the conquest of Jerusalem. They 
made a considerable part of the household of the nobility of France. 
Louis the Seventh, king of France, not only entertained them at his 
court very liberally, but commanded a considerable company of 
them into his retinue, when he took ship for Palestine, that they might 
solace him with their songs during the dangers and inconveniencies of 
so long a voyage. The ancient chronicles of France mention Legions 
(le poetes as embarking in this wonderful enterprise. Here a new and 
more copious source of fabling was opened : in these expeditions they 
picked up numberless extravagant stories, and at their return enriched 
romance with an infinite variety of Oriental scenes and fictions. Thus 
these later wonders, in some measure, supplanted the former: they had 
the recommendation of novelty, and gained still more attention, as 
they came from a greater distance. 

In the meantime we should recollect, that the Saracens or Arabians, 
the same people which were the object of the Crusades, had acquired 
an establishment in Spain about the ninth century : and tliat by means 
of this earlier intercourse, many of their fictions and fables, together 
with their literature, must have been known in Europe before the 
Christian armies invaded Asia. It is for this reason the elder Spani.^Ji 
romances have professedly more Arabian allusions than any other. 
Cervantes makes the imagined writer of Don Quixote's history an 
Arabian. Yet exclusive of their domestic and more immediate con- 
nection with this eastern people, the Spaniards from temper and 
constitution were extravagantly fond of chivalrous exercises. Some 
critics have supposed, that Spain having learned the art or fashion of 
romance-writing, from their naturalized guests the Arabians, com- 
municated it, at an early period, to the rest of Europe. 

It has been imagined that tlie first romances were composed in 
metre, and sung to the harp by the poets of , Provence at festival 
solemnities : but an ingenious Frenchman, who has made deep 
researches into this sort of literature, attempts to prove that this mode 
of reciting romantic adventures was in high reputation among the 
natives of Normandy above a century before the troubadours of 
Provence, who are generally supposed to have led the way to the poets 
of Italy, Spain, and France, and that it commenced about the year 
1 162. If the critic means to insinuate that the French troubadours 
acquired their art of versifying from these Norman bards, this reasoning 
will favour the system of those who contend that metrical romances 



Mackenzie.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 79 

lineally took their rise from the historical odes of the Scandinavian 
scalds ; for the Normans were a branch of the Scandinavian stock. 
But Fauchet, at the same time that he allows the Normans to have 
been fond of chanting the praises of their heroes in verse, expressly 
pronounces that they borrowed this practice from the Franks or 
French. 

It is not my business, nor is it of much consequence, to discuss this 
obscure point, which properly belongs to the French antiquaries. I 
therefore proceed to observe, that our Richard the First, who began 
his reign in the year 11 89, a distinguished hero of the Crusades, a 
most magnificent patron of chivalry, and a Provencial poet, invited to 
his court many minstrels or troubadours from France, whom he loaded 
with honours and rewards. These poets imported into England a 
great multitude of their tales and songs 3 which before or about the 
reign of Edward the Second became familiar and popular among our 
ancestors, who were sufficiently acquainted with the French language. 
The most early notice of a professed book of chivalry in England, as 
it should seem, appears under the reign of Henry the Third ; and is a 
curious and evident proof of the reputation and esteem in which tliis 
sort of composition was held at that period. In the revenue roll of 
the twenty-first year of that king, there is an entry of the expense of 
silver clasps and studs for the king's great book of romances. This 
was in the year 1237. But I will give the article in its original dress. 
"Et in firmaculis hapsis et clavis argenteis ad magnum librum 
Romancis regis." That this superb volume was in French, may be 
partly collected from the title which they gave it : and it is highly 
probable, that it contained the romance of Richard the First. — The 
History of English Poetry, § iii. 



30.— THE BEGGAR AND HIS DOG. 

[H. Mackenzie, 1745 — 1831. 

[Henry Mackenzie, born in Edinburgh, in August, 1745, was the son of a physician. 
He was educated at the High School and the university of his native city, and re- 
paired to London in 1765, for the purpose of completing his legal studies. His 
first work, "The Man of Feeling," was published anonymously in 1771. "The 
Man of the World," which appeared in 1783, was followed by "Julia de Roubigne." 
Mackenzie contributed to various periodicals, and wrote several plays. He was made 
controller of the taxes for Scotland in 1804. He edited a complete edition of his 
literary works published at Edinburgh in 1808, and died in that city Jan. 14, 1831.] 

Peter stood at the door. We have mentioned this faithful fellow 
formerly. Harley's father had taken him up an orphan, and saved 
him from being cast on the parish ; and he had ever since remained 
in the service of him and of his son. Harley shook him by the hand 



8o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Mackenzie. 

as he passed, smiling, as if he had said, " I will not weep." He sprung 
hastily into the chaise that waited for him : Peter folded up the steps. 
"My dear master," said he, shaking the solitary lock that hung on 
either side of his head, " I have been told as how London is a sad 
place." — He was choked with the thought, and his benediction could 
not be heard ; but it shall be heard, honest Peter ! where these tears 
will add to energy. 

In a few hours Harley reached the inn where he proposed breakfasting j 
but the fulness of his heart would not suffer him to eat a morsel. He 
walked out on the road, and gaining a little height, stood gazing on 
that quarter he had left. He looked for his wonted prospect, his 
fields, his woods, and his hills ; they were lost in the distant clouds ! 
He pencilled them on the clouds, and bade them farewell with a sigh ! 

He sat down on a large stone to take out a little pebble from his 
shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching him. He 
had on a loose sort of a coat, mended with different coloured rags, 
amongst which the blue and the russet were predominant. He had a 
short knotty stick in his hand, and on the top of it was stuck a ram's 
horn ', his knees (though he was no pilgrim) had worn the stuff off his 
breeches ; he wore no shoes, and his stockings had entirely lost that 
part of them which should have covered his feet and ankles ^ in his 
face, however, was the plump appearance of good-humour ; he walked 
a good round pace, and a crook-legged dog trotted at his heels. 

" Our delicacies," said Harley to himself, "are fantastic ; they are not 
in nature ! that beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones bare- 
footed, — whilst I have lost the most delightful dream in the world, 
from the smallest of them happening to get into my shoe." — The 
beggar had by this time come up, and, pulling off a piece of hat, asked 
charity of Harley J the dog began to beg too: — it was impossible to 
resist both ; and, in truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made 
both unnecessary, for Harley had destined sixpence for him before. 
The be^^gar, on receiving it, poured forth blessings without number ; 
and, with a sort of smile on his countenance, said to Harley, ''that if 
he wanted to have his fortune told " — Harley turned his eye briskly 
on the beggar ; it was an unpromising look for the subject of prediction, 
and silenced the prophet immediately. " I would much rather learn," 
said Harley, " what it is in your power to tell me. Your trade must 
be an entertaining one; sit down on this stone, and let me know 
something of your profession 3 I have often thought of turning fortune- 
teller for a week or two myself." 

'* Master," replied the beggar, " I like your frankness much ; God 
knows I had the humour of plain-dealing in me from a child ; but 
there is no doing with it in this world ; we must live as we can ; and 



Mackenzie.^ OF MODERN LITERATURE. 8i 

lying is, as you call it, my profession j but I was in some sort forced 
to the trade, for I dealt once in telling truth. I was a labourer. Sir, 
and gained as much as to make me llv^e. I never laid by, indeed ; for 
I was reckoned a piece of a wag, and your wags, I take it, are seldom 
rich, Mr. Harley." "So," said Harley, ** you seem to know me." "Ay, 
there are few folks in the country that I don't know something of. 
How should I tell fortunes else ?" "True ; but to go on with your story 3 
you were a labourer, you say, and a wag : your industry, I suppose, 
you left with your old trade 3 but your humour you preserve to be of 
use to you in your new." 

"What signifies sadness. Sir; a man grows lean on't. But I was 
brought to my idleness by degrees ; first I could not work, and it 
went against my stomach to work ever after. I was seized with a jail 
fever at the time of the assizes being in the county where I lived ; for 
I was always curious to get acquainted with the felons, because they 
are commonly fellows of much mirth and little thought, qualities I had 
ever an esteem for. In the height of this fever, Mr. Harley, the house 
where I lay took fire, and burnt to the ground. I was carried out in 
that condition, and lay all the rest of my illness in a barn. I got the 
better of my disease, however ; but I was so weak that I spit blood 
whenever I attempted to work. I had no relation living that I knew 
of, and I never kept a friend above a week, when I was able to joke : 
I seldom remained above six months in a parish, so that I might have 
died before I had found a settlement in any. Thus I was forced to 
beg my bread, and a sorry trade I have found it, Mr. Harley. I told 
all my misfortunes truly, but they were seldom believed ; and the few 
who gave me a halfpenny as they passed, did it with a shake of the 
head, and an injunction not to trouble them with a long story. In 
short I found that people don't care to give alms without some security 
for their money 3 a wooden leg, or a withered arm, is a sort of draught 
upon heaven for those who choose to have their money placed to ac- 
count there 3 so I changed my plan, and, instead of telling my own 
misfortunes, began to prophesy happiness to others. This I found by 
much the better way. Folks will always listen when the tale is their 
own 3 and of many who say they do not believe in fortune-telling, I 
have known few on whom it had not a very sensible effect. I pick 
up the names of their acquaintance 3 amours and little squabbles are 
easily gleaned among servants and neighb(jurs3 and indeed people 
themselves are the best intelligences in the world for our purpose. 
They dare not puzzle us for their ow^n sakes, for every one is anxious 
to hear what they wish to believe 3 and they who repeat it to laugh 
at it when they have done, are generally more serious than their 
hearers are apt to imagine. With a tolerable good memory, and some 

G 



82 TEE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Robertson. 

share of cunning, with the help of walking a-nights over heaths and 
churchyards, with this, and shewing the tricks of that there dog, whom 
I stole from the sergeant of a marching regiment (and, by the way, he 
can steal, too, upon occasion), I make shift to pick up a livelihood. My 
trade indeed is none of the honestest ; yet people are not much cheated 
neither, who give a few halfpence for a prospect of happiness, which, 
I have heard some persons say, is all that a man can arrive at in this 
world. But I must bid you good day, Sirj for I have three miles to 
walk before noon, to inform some boarding-school young ladies, 
whether their husbands are to be peers of the reaim or captains in the 
army 3 a question which I promised to answer by that time." 

Harley had drawn a shilling from his pockety but virtue bade him 
consider on whom he was going to bestow it. — Virtue held back his 
arm ; but a milder form, a younger sister of Virtue's, not so severe as 
Virtue, nor so serious as Pity, smiled upon him. His fingers lost their 
compression ; — nor did Virtue offer to catch the money as it fell. It 
had no sooner reached the ground, than the watchful cur (a trick he 
had been taught) snapped it up ; and, contrary to the most approved 
method of stewardship, delivered it immediately into the hands of his 
Piaster. — Tke Man of Feeling, ch. xiv. 



31.— CHARACTER OF THOMAS BECKET. 

[Rev. J. C. Robertson, 1813. 
[James Craigie Robertson, born in Aberdeen in 1813, was educated at Marischal 
College, in his native place, and Trinity College, Cambridge. He was appointed 
Vicar of Bekesbourne, near Canterbury, in 1846, one of the canons of Canterbury in 
1859, and Professor of Ecclesiastical History in King's College, in 1864. His 
" History of the Christian Church to the Pontificate of Gregory the Great, a.d. 
590," was published in 1854, and a second volume, bringing the history down to 
the date of the Concordat of Worms, in 1123, appeared in 1858. " Becket, 
Archbishop of Canterbury : a Biography," was first published in 1859.] 

If we compare Becket with the two great champions of the hierarchy, 
who within a century had preceded him — Gregory the Seventh, and 
Anselm* — the result will not be in his favour. He had nothing of 



* ?Iildebrand, born in Tuscany in 1020, was crowned Pope July 10, 1073, and died 
in exile at Salerno, May 25, 1085. His quarrel with the Emperor Henry IV., 
respecting the right of investiture, lasted ten years. Henry IV. invaded Italy, and laid 
siege to Rome, which he captured in 1084, whereupon Gregory VII. retired first to 
Monte Casino, and then to Salerno, where he died, his last words being, " I have loved 
justice, and hated iniquity; therefore I die in exile." — Anselm, born at Aosta, in 1033, 
was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury in 1093, and died April 21, 1109. Anselm, 
the first of the Schoolmen, quarrelled with William II., and retired to the Continent, 
but returned during the reign of Henry I., and took possession of his see. 



iJobertson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 83 

Hildeb rand's originality of conception — of his world-wide view, of his 
superiority to vulgar objects, of his far-sighted patience. Doubtless 
he would have been ready to adopt the great Pope's dying words : that 
he suffered because he had "loved righteousness, and hated iniquity 3" 
but how much more of self-deceit would have been necessary for this 
in the one case than in the other ? Hildebrand, while he exalted the 
hierarchy against the secular power, had laboured with an earnest, 
although partly misdirected zeal, that its members should not be un- 
worthy of the lofty part which he assigned to it in the economy of 
this world : in Becket, we see the Hildebrandine principles misapplied 
to shelter the clergy from the temporal punishment of their crimes. 
Far less will the later English Primate endure a comparison with his 
illustrious predecessor, Anselm. It is, indeed, no reproach to him that 
he was without that profound philosophical genius which made Anselm 
the greatest teacher that the church had seen since St. Augustine 3 but 
the deep and mystical fervour of devotion, the calm and gentle temper, 
the light, keen, and subtle, yet kindly wit, the amiable and unassuming 
character of Anselm, the absence of all personal pretension in his 
assertion of the church's claims, are qualities which fairly enter into 
the comparison, and which contrast strikingly with the coarse worldly 
pride and ostentation by which the character and the religion of 
Becket were disfigured. Nor in a comparison either with Anselm or 
with Hildebrand must we forget that, while their training had been 
exclusively clerical and monastic, Becket's more varied experience of 
life renders the excesses of hierarchical spirit far less excusable in him 
than in them. 

An eminent writer, whose position is very different from that of 
Becket's ordinary admirers, has eulogized him as having contributed 
to maintain the balance of moral against physical force, to control the 
despotism which oppressed the Middle Ages, and so to prepare the 
way for modern English liberty.^ And such was unquestionably the 
result of his exertions, as of much besides in the labours of Hilde- 
brand and his followers. But it is rather an effect wrought out by an 
overruling Providence than anything which Becket contemplated, or 
for which he deserves credit or gratitude. His efforts were made, 
not in the general cause of the community, but for the narrowest 
interests of the clergy as a body separate from other men ; and it is 
not to the freest but to the most priest-ridden and debased of modern 
countries that we ought to look for the consequences which would 
have followed, if tl'fe course of things had answered to Becket's inten- 
tion. 

* Sir J. Stephen's " Essays," i. 377 — 8. 
G 2 



84 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Warburton. 

Least of all does Becket deserve the sympathy of those among our- 
selves who dread that reversed Hiidebrandism which would reduce the 
Church to a mere function of the secular power. An Englishman 
ought no more, as a churchman, to espouse the cause of those who, in 
former times, exaggerated the claims of the hierarchy, than, as the 
subject of a constitutional monarchy, he ought to defend the excesses 
of despotism. The name of Becket, instead of serving as a safeguard 
to those who fear encroachment on the Church in our own time, will 
only furnish their opponents with a pretext for representing the 
most equitable claims in behalf of the Church as manifestations of a 
spirit which would aim at the establishment of priestly tyranny and 
intolerance. — Becket, Archbishop of Canterhury , a Biography, ch. xy. 



32.— CROCODILE SHOOTING ON THE NILE. 

[E. B. Warburton, 1810 — 1852. 

[Eliot Bartholomew George Warburton, born in 1810, was educated by a tutor 
at home, and proceeded first to Queen's, and afterwards to Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge. He was called to the bar, and his first work, a book of Eastern travel, the 
"Crescent and the Cross," appeared in 1845; "Prince Rupert, and the Cavaliers," 
was published in 1849. This author's last work, " Darien, or the Merchant 
Prince," was published after his death, which occurred January 4, 1852, he being 
one of the ill-fated passengers on board the Royal West India mail steamer 
Amazon, destroyed by fire in the Bay of Biscay.] 

The first time a man fires at a crocodile is an epoch in his life. We 
had only now arrived in the waters where they abound, for it is a 
curious fact that none are ever seen below^ Mineyeh ; tliough Hero- 
dotus speaks of tliem as fighting with the dolphins at the mouth of 
the Nile. A prize had been offered for the first man who detected a 
crocodile, and the crew had been for two days on the alert in search of 
them. Buoyed up \\'ith the expectation of such game, we had latterly re- 
served our hre for them exclusively ; and the wild duck and turtle — 
nay, even tlie vulture and the eagle — had swept past, or soared above 
us in security. 

At length the cry of '* Timseach, timseach !" was heard from half a 
dozen claimants of the proffered prize, and half a dozen black fingers 
were eagerly pointed to a spit of sand, on wdiich were strew^n appa- 
rently some logs of trees. It was a covey of crocodiles ! Hastily and 
silently the boat was run in shore, and I anxiously clambered up the 
steep bank that commanded the gigantic game. My intended victims 
might have prided themselves on their superior nonchalance j and, 
indeed, as I approached them there seemed to be a sneer on their 
ghastly mouths and winking eyes. Slowly tliey rose, one after the 



Warburton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 85 

Other, and waddled to the water, all but one — the most gallant or 
most gorged of the party. He lay still until I was within a hundred 
yards of him ; then, slowly rising on his tin-like legs, he lumbered 
towards the river, looking askance at me with an expression of coun- 
tenance that seemed to say " He can do me no harm, but we may as 
well have a swim." I took aim at the throat of the supercilious 
brute, and as soon as my hand steadied, the very pulsation of my 
finger pulled the trigger : forth flew the bullet ; and my excited ear 
could catch the thud with which it plunged into the scaly leather of 
his neck : his waddle became a plunge, the waves closed over him, 
and the sun shone upon the calm water as I reached the brink of the 
shore that was still indented by the waving of his gigantic tail. But 
there is blood upon the water, and he rises for a moment to the sur- 
face. " A hundred piastres for the timseach !" shouted I, and half a 
dozen Arabs plunged into the stream. There ! he rises again, and 
the blacks dash at him as if he hadn't a tooth in his head ; now he is 
gone, the waters close over him, and I never saw him since. 

From that time we saw hundreds of crocodiles of all sizes, and 
fired shots enough at them for a Spanish revolution 5 but we never 
could get possession of any, even if we hit them, which to this day 
remains uncertain. I believe most travellers, who are honest enough, 
will make nearly the same confession. 

Crocodiles stuffed were often brought to us to buy 3 but the Arabs 
take a great deal of trouble to get them, making an ambush in the 
sands where they resort, and taking aim when within a few yards of 
their foe, for as such they regard these monsters, though they seldom 
suffer from them. Above the cataracts, a Greek officer in the Pasha's 
service told me they are very fierce, and the troops at Sennaar lost 
numbers of men by tliem and the hippopotamus when bathing 3 but I 
heard of only one death occurring below the cataracts this year. This 
was of an old woman, wdio was drawing water near Keneh : a croco- 
dile encircled her with his tail, brushed her into the water, and then 
seizing her by the waist, held her under the water as long as she con- 
tinued to move. When lifeless, he swam with the corpse across the 
river to the opposite bank 3 and the villagers, now assembled, saw him 
quietly feeding on their old friend, as an otter might upon a salmon. 
The Egyptian who narrated this circumstance, told us, with a grin, 
that the woman was his grandmother, that he had shot the assassin 
three days afterwards, and sold him to an Englishman for seven and 
sixpence ! 

The king of the crocodiles is said to reside in Denderah, and the 
queen some forty miles higher up the river. This separation of the 
royal family does not appear to have any injurious efiect on the inte- 



86 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Jameson. 

rest of the rest of the grim community 5 there was scarcely a sunny 
bank between these regal residences whereon a crowd of crocodiles 
was not to be seen, hatching eggs or plots against passengers. The 
parent crocodile deposits her eggs, to the number of from 80 to 100, 
in the sand, which is a sort of foundling hospital for her race : even 
hens wont hatch in Egypt, so it could scarcely be expected that 
crocodiles would set the example. The sun, then, is the foster- 
morher, and the only watchers by the eggshell cradle are the fishes 
and the birds of prey. Imagine a nest of crocodile's eggs, when the 
embryos feel that it is time to make a start of it, and roll about the 
shells attempting to emancipate themselves. Out they come, and 
make a rush for the river 3 a flock of hawks and kites is on the wing 
for them, the ichneumons run at them, fishes gape for themj yet 
enough escape to make one rather squeamish about bathing in the 
neighbourhood, until all-powerful habit reconciles one to their society. 
— The Crescent and the Cross ; or, Romance and Realities of Eastern 
Travel, ch. ix. 



33.— ST. NICHOLAS OF MYRA. 

[Mrs. Jameson, 1797 — 1860. 

[Anna Jameson, the daughter of Mr. Murphy, an artist, was born in Dublin in 
1797. From an early age she devoted her attention to art. Her first work, "The 
Diary of an Ennuye'e," was published anonymously in 1826. An enlarged edition 
appeared in 1834 under the title "Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad." 
Mrs. Jameson was a prolific writer. " Characteristics of Women, Moral, Historical, 
and Political," published in 1832; "The Poetry of Sacred and Legendary Art" in 
1848; "Legends of the Monastic Orders" in 1850; and "Legends of the 
Madonna" in 1852, are the best known of her various literary productions. Mrs. 
Jameson died March 17, i860.] 

I PLACE St. Nicholas here because, although he wears the parapher- 
nalia of bishops, it is as the powerful and beneficent patron saint, 
seldom as the churchman, that he appears before us 5 and of all patron 
saints he is, perhaps, the most universally popular and interesting. 
While knighthood had its St. George, serfhood had its St. Nicholas j 
he was emphatically the saint of the people j the bourgeois saint, 
.nvoked by the peaceable citizen, by the labourer who toiled for his 
daily bread, by the merchant who traded from shore to shore, by the 
mariner struggling with the stormy ocean. He was the protector of 
the weak against the strong, of the poor against the rich, of the 
captive, the prisoner, the slave j he was the guardian of young 
marriageable maidens, of schoolboys, and especially of the orphan 
poor. In Russia, Greece, and throughout all Catholic Europe, children 
Hre still taught to reverence St. Nicholas, and to consider themselves 
i-is placed under his peculiar care : if they are good, docile, and atten- 



Jameson. OF MODERN LITERATURE. 87 

tive to their studies, St. Nicholas, on the eve of his festival, will 
graciously fill their cap or their stocking with dainties 3 while he has, 
as certainly, a rod in pickle for the idle and unruly, 

Elffigies of this most benign bishop, with his splendid embroidered 
robes, all glittering with gold and jewels, his mitre, his crosier, and his 
three balls, or his three attendant children, meet us at every turn, and 
can never be regarded but with some kindly association of feeling. No 
saint in the calendar has so many churches, chapels, and altars dedicated 
to him. In England I suppose there is hardly a town without one 
church at least bearing his name. 

It would be in vain to attempt to establish this popular predilection 
and wide-spread fame on anything like historical evidence. All that 
can be certainly known of him is, that a bishop of this name, venerable 
for his piety and benevolence, was honoured in the East as early as the 
sixth century 3 that in the Greek Church he takes rank immediately 
after the great fathers ; that the Emperor Justinian dedicated to him a 
church in Constantinople about the year ^603 and that since the tenth 
century he has been known and reverenced in the West, and became 
one of the greatest patron saints of Italy and the northern nations 
about the beginning of the twelfth century. There is no end to the 
stories and legends in which he appears as a chief actor. 

Nicholas was born at Panthera, a city of the province of Lycia, in 
Asia Minor. His parents were Christians, and of illustrious birth, 
and, after they had been married for many years, a son was granted 
them, in recompense of the prayers, and tears, and alms that they 
offered up continually. This extraordinary child, on the first day he 
was born, stood up in his bath with his hands joined in thanksgiving 
that it had pleased God to bring him into the world. He no sooner 
knew what it was to feed than he knew what it was to fast, and every 
Wednesday and Friday he would only take the breast once. As he 
grew up he was distinguished among all other children for his gravity 
and his attention to his studies. His parents, seeing him full of these 
holy dispositions, thought that they could not do better than dedicate 
him to the service of God 3 and accordingly they did so. 

When Nicholas was ordained priest, although he had been before 
remarkable for his sobriety and humility, he became more modest in 
countenance, more grave in speech, more rigorous in self-denial, than 
ever. When he was still a youth his father and mother died of the 
plague, and he remained sole heir of their vast riches : but he looked 
upon himself as merely the steward of God's mercies, giving largely to 
all who needed. 

Now in that city there dwelt a certain nobleman, who had three 
daughters, and, from being rich, he became poor — so poor, that there 
remained no means of obtaining food for his daughters. Meantime 



88 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Camoens. 

the maidens wept continually, not knowing what to do, and not having 
bread to eat, and their father became more and more desperate. When 
Nicholas heard of this, he thought it a shame that such a thing should 
happen in a Christian land 3 therefore, one night when the miaidens 
were asleep, and their father alone sat watching and weeping, he took 
a handful of gold, and, tying it up in a handkerchief, he repaired to 
the dwelhng of the poor man. He considered how he might bestow 
it without making himself known, and, while he stood irresolute, the 
moon coming from behind a cloud, showed him a window open ; so 
he threw it in, and it fell at the feet of the father, who, when he found 
it, returned thanks, and with it he portioned his eldest daughter. 
A second time Nicholas provided a similar sum, and again 
he tlirew it in by night j and with it the nobleman married his second 
daughter. But he greatly desired to know who it was that came to 
his aid j therefore he determined to watch, and when the good saint 
came for the third time, and prepared to throw in the third portion, he 
was discovered, for the nobleman seized him by the skirt of his robe, 
and flung himself at his feet, saying, '' O Nicholas ! servant of God ! 
why seek to hide thyself?" and he kissed his feet and his hands. But 
Nicholas made him promise that he would tell no man. 

Many other great and good actions did St. Nicholas perform ; but 
at length he died, yielding up his soul to God with great joy and 
thankfulness, on the 6th day of December, in the year of our Lord 
326, and he was buried in a magnificent church, which was in the city 
of Myra. — Sacred and Legendary Art, vol. ii. ; St. Nicholas. 



34.— ADAMASTER, THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE. 

[Camoens, 1517 — 1579, translated by Mickle, 1734 — 1788. 
[Luis de Camoens, the great epic poet of Portugal, born at Lisbon about 1517, was 
educated at the University of Coimbra. In 1553 he embarked for India, and having 
underg-^ne a variety of adventures, and suffered shipwreck on the coast of Cambodia, 
returned to Lisbon in 1569. Camoens was, however, neglected, and he died in a 
hospital in 1579. His principal poem is "The Lusiad," first published in 1572. 
" Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Camoens," by John Adamson, appeared in 
London in 1820. An English translation, by William Julius Mickle, was published 
in 1776. Mickle, who was born at Langholm, in Scotland, in 1734, and died, near 
Oxford, October 28, 1788, is the author of several small poems, which were pub- 
lished with a life of the poet by J. Sim, in 1806.] 

Now prosperous gales the bending canvas swelled; 
From these rude shores our fearless course we held : 
Beneath the glistening wave the God of day 
Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray. 



Camoens.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 89 

When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread. 

And slowly floating o"er die mast's tall head 

A black cloud hovered : nor appeared from far 

The moon's pale glimpse, nor taintly t\\'inkling star ; 

So deep a gloom tlie lowering vapour cast, 

Transtixt \\'ith awe tlie bravest stood aghast. 

jNIeanwhile a hollo\\'-bursting roar resounds. 

As \^'hen hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds ; 

Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowning heaven. 

The wonted signs of gathering tempest given. 

Amazed we stood — O tliou, our fortune's guide. 

Avert tiiis omen, mighty God, I cried ; 

Or tlirough forbidden climes adventurous strayed. 

Have \ve tlie secrets of tlie deep surveyed. 

Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky 

Were doomed to hide from man's unhallowed eye ? 

Whate'er tliis prodigy, it tlireatens more 

Than midnight tempests and tlie mingled roar. 

When sea and sky combine to rock tlie marble shore. 

I shook, when rising through the darkened air. 

Appalled we saw an hideous phantom glare ; 

High and enormous o'er tlie flood he towered. 

And thwart our ^^■ay witli sullen aspect lowered : 

An eartlily paleness o'er his cheeks was spread. 

Erect uprose his hairs of withered red ; 

W^ritliing to speak, his sable lips disclose. 

Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teetli's blue rows j 

His haggard beard flowed quivering on tlie wind. 

Revenge and horror in his mien combined ; 

His clouded front, by witliering lightnings scared. 

The inward anguish of his soul declared. 

His red eyes gio\^-ing from their dusky caves 

Shot livid tires : tar echoing o'er the waves 

His voice resounded, as the caverned shore 

With liollo\^' groan repeats tlie tempest's roar. 

Cold gliding horrors thrilled each hero's breast. 

Our bristling hair and tottering knees contest 

Wild dread ; the while with visage ghastl)' wan. 

His black lips trembling, thus the tiend began: 

"O you, the boldest of the nations, tired 

" By daring pride, by lust ot fame inspired, 

" Who scornful of the bowers of sweet repose, 

** Through these my waves advance your fearless prows, 



90 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Camoens. 

" Regardless of the lengthening watery way, 

" And all the storms that own my sovereign sway, 

*' Who, mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore 

" Where never hero braved my rage before -, 

*' Ye sons of Lusus, who with eyes profane 

" Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign, 

" Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew 

"To veil her secret shrine from mortal view 5 

" Hear from my lips what direful woes attend 

**" And bursting soon shall o'er your race descend: 

" With every bounding keel that dares my rage, 

" Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage, 

"The next proud fleet that through my drear domain 

" With daring search shall hoist the streaming vane, 

" That gallant navy by my whirlwinds tost, 

" And raging seas shall perish on my coast : 

" Then He who first my secret reign descried, 

" A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide 

" Shall drive — unle,ss my heart's full raptures fail, 

" O Lusus ! oft shalt thou thy children wail ; 

" Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou deplore, 

" Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore." 

He paused, in act still farther to disclose 

A long, a dreary prophecy of woes : 

When springing onward, loud my voice resounds. 

And, midst his rage, the threatening shade confounds : 

"What art thou, horrid form that ridest the air ? 

"By heaven's eternal light, stern fiend declare." 

His lips he writhes, his eyes far round he throws. 

And from his breast deep hollow groans arose 3 

Sternly askance he stood with wounded pride 

And anguish torn, " In me behold," he cried. 

While dark red sparkles from his eyeballs rolled, 

"In me the spirit of the Cape behold, 

" That rock by you the Cape of Tempests named, 

" By Neptune's rage in horrid earthquakes framed, 

" When Jove's red bolts o'er Titan's offspring flamed. 

" With wide-stretched piles I guard thy pathless strand, 

"And Afric's southern mound unmoved I stand : • 

" Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar 

" E'er dashed the white wave foaming to my shore ; 

" Nor Greece nor Carthage ever spread the sail 

" On these my seas to catch the trading gale. 



Bunyan.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 

" You, you alone have dared to plough my main, 

" And with the human voice disturb my lonesome reign." 

He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew, 

A doleful sound, and vanished from the view ; 

The frighten'd billows gave a rolling swell. 

And distant far prolonged the dismal yell ; 

Faint and more faint the howling echoes die. 

And the black cloud dispersing leaves the sky. 

High to the angel host, whose guardian care 

Had ever round us watched, my hands I rear. 

And heaven's dread King implore, as o'er our head 

The fiend dissolved, an empty shadow fled ; 

So may his curses by the winds of heaven 

Far o'er the deep, their idle sport be driven ! 

The Lusiad, B. v. 



35.— CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL IN DOUBTING CASTLE. 

[John Bunyan, 1628 — 1688. 

[John Bunyan, the son of a tinker, born at Elstow, near Bedford, in 1628, received 
very little education, and when a boy enlisted in the Parliamentary Army. Having 
been baptized by immersion in 1653, he soon afterwards began to preach, for which 
he was imprisoned in Bedford jail in 1660. Though allowed to pay visits to his 
friends, he did not obtain his release till Sep. 13, 1672. During his confinement he 
wrote several works, the best known of which, " The Pilgrim's Progress from this 
World to that which is to Come," was not published until 1678. It soon went 
through numerous editions, and has been translated into all languages. A second part 
appeared in 1683. The first collected edition of his works was published in 1767, 
the edition of 1692 not having been completed. A list of Bunyan's works, sixty in 
number, is appended to Offor's edition of the " Pilgrim's Progress," published in 
1856. John Bunyan died in London, Aug. 31, 1688, though Aug. 12 is the date 
upon his tombstone. His life, by J, Irving, appeared in 1809, by R. Southey pre- 
fixed to an edition of the "Pilgrim's Progress," in 1831, and several other bio- 
graphies have been written. Dr. Johnson remarks, "His ' Pilgrim's Progress ' has 
great merit, both for invention, imagination, and the conduct of the story ; and it 
has had the best evidence of its merit, the general and continued approbation of 
mankind. Few books, I believe, have had a more extensive sale." Hallam (Lit. 
Hist., part iv. chap. 7), after remarking "that John Bunyan may pass for the father 
of our novelists," adds, " * The Pilgrim's Progress,' like some other books, has of late 
been a little overrated ; its excellence is great, but it is not of the highest rank." 
Lord Macaulay, who is more eulogistic, says, "Bunyan is as decidedly the first of 
allegorists as Demosthenes is the first of orators, or Shakespeare the first of 
dramatists."] 

Now there was, not far from the place where Hopeful and Christian 
lay, a castle called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant 
Despair 3 and it was in his grounds they now were sleeping: where- 
fore he, getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in 



92 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bunyan. 

his fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then, 
with a grim and surly voice, he bid them awake ; and asked them 
whence they were, and what they did in his grounds. They told him 
they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way. Then, said the 
Gianl, You have this night trespassed on me, by trampling in and 
lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me. So 
they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also 
had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault. The giant, 
therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, into a 
very dark dungeon, nasty and stinking to the spirits of these two men. 
Psa. Ixxxviii. 18. Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till 
Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, 
or any to ask how they did j they were, therefore, here in evil case, 
and were far from friends and acquaintance. Now in this place 
Christian had double sorrow, because it was through his unadvised 
counsel that they were brought into this distress. 

The Pilgrims now to gratify the flesh. 
Will seek its ease; but oh ! how they afresh 
Do thereby plunge themselves new griefs into ! 
Who seek to please the flesh themselves undo. 

Now, Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So 
when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done 3 to wit, 
that he had taken a couple of prisoners and cast them into his dun- 
geon, for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her also what 
he had best to do further to them. So she asked him what they were, 
whence they came, and whither they were bound 3 and he told her. 
Then she counselled him that when he arose in the morning he 
should beat them without any mercy. So when he arose, he getteth 
him a grievous crab-tree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to 
them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs, 
although they never gave him a word of distaste. Then he falls 
upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort, that they were not 
able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done, 
he withdraws and leaves them, there to condole their misery, and to 
mourn under their distress. So all that day they spent their time 
in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. The next night, she, 
talking with her husband about them further, and understanding they 
were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them to make away them- 
selves. So when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly 
manner as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes 
that he had given them the day before, he told them, that since they 
were never likely to come out of that place, their only way would be 
forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife, halter, or 



Bunj'an.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 93 

poison 5 for why, said he, should you choose life, seeing it is attended 
with so much bitterness ? But they desired him to let them go. With 
that he looked ugly upon them, and rushing to them, had doubtless 
made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one of his fits (for 
he sometimes, in sunshiny weather, fell into fits), and lost for a time 
the use of his handj wherefore he withdrew, and left them as before, 
to consider what to do. Then did the prisoners consult between 
themselves, whether it was best to take his counsel or no. 

Well, towards evening the Giant goes down to the dungeon again, 
to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel ; but when he came there 
he found them alive 5 and truly, alive was all 3 for now, for want of 
bread and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he 
beat them, they could do little but breathe. But, I say, he found 
them alive j at which he fell into a grievous rage, and told them that 
seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them 
than if they had never been born. 

At this they trembled greatly,'* and I think that Christian fell into a 
swoon J but, coming a little to himself again, they renewed their dis- 
course about the Giant's counsel 3 and whether yet they had best to 
take it or no. 

Now night being come again, and the Giant and his wife being in 
bed, she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his 
counsel. To which he replied. They are sturdy rogues, they choose 
rather to bear all hardship, than to make away themselves. Then, said 
she. Take them into the castle-yard to-morrow, and show them the 
bones and skulls of those that thou hast already despatched, and make 
them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou also wilt tear them in 
pieces, as thou hast done their fellows before them. 

So when the morning was come, the Giant goes to them again, and 
takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them, as his wife had 
bidden him. These, said he, were pilgrims as you are, once, and 
they trespassed in my grounds, as you have done j and when I thought 
fit, I tore them in pieces, and so, within ten days, I will do you. Go, 
get you down to your den again -, and with that he beat them all the 
way thither. They lay, therefore, all day on Saturday in a lamentable 
case, as before. Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffi- 
dence and her husband, the Giant, were got to bed, they began to 
renew their discourse of their prisoners; and withal the old Giant 
wondered, that he could neither by his blows nor his counsel bring 
them to an end. And with that his wife replied, I fear, said she, that 



* Isaiah li. 20. 



94 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Schlegel. 

they live in hope that some will come to relieve them, or that 
they have picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope to 
escape. And sayest thou so, my dear ? said the Giant ; I will there- 
fore search them in the morning. 

Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and 
continued in prayer till almost break of day. 

Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half-amazed, 
brake out in this passionate speech : What a fool, quoth he, am I. 
thus to lie in a stinking dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty ! 
I have a key in my bosom called Promise,'^ that will, I am persuaded, 
open any lock in Doubting Castle. Then said Hopeful, That is good 
news, good brother ; pluck it out of thy bosom and try. 

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the 
dungeon door, whose bolt (as he turned the key) gave back, and the 
door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. 
Then he went to the outward door that leads into the castle-yard, and, 
with his key, opened that door also. After, he went to the iron gate, 
for that must be opened too -, but that lock went damnable hard, yet 
the key did open it. Then they thrust open the gate to make their 
escape with speed, but that gate, as it opened, made such a creaking, 
that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, 
felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him again, so that he could by no 
means go after them. They then went on, and came to the King's 
highway, and so were safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction. 

Now, when they were gone over the stile, they began to contrive 
with themselves what they should do at that stile, to prevent those 
that should come after, from falling into the hands of Giant Despair. 
So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to engrave upon the side 
thereof this sentence — " Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, 
which is kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth the King of the Celestial 
Country, and seeks to destroy his holy pilgrims." Many, therefore, that 
followed after, read what was written, and escaped the danger. — Tke 
Pilgrim's Progress. 



36.— LORD BACON. 

[F. Schlegel, 1772 — 1829. 

[Friedrich Carl Wiliielm Von Schlegel was born at Manover, March 10, 1772. 
Destined by his fether for commercial pursuits, he was apprenticed at Leipsic. Show- 
ing little inclination for business, he was sent to Gottingen, and thence to the uni- 
versity of Leipsic. He assisted his brother, Augustus Wilhelm, in editing a periodical 



* This key was Hebrews ii. 14, 15. 



Schlegel.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 95 

entitled " The Athen^um/' in 1796. The first volume of his unfinished novel, 
"Lucinde," published at Berlin, in 1799, created quite a sensation. He is best known 
in this country by his lectures, which have been translated into English. His " Lec- 
tures on the History of Literature," delivered at Vienna in 181 2, translated and 
abridged by Mr. Lockhart in 1838, were published in a complete form in "Bohn^s 
Standard Library," in 1859. A translation of " Schlegel's Philosophy of History," 
published in 1835, was revised and appeared in Bohn's "Standard Librar/^ in 1846. 
A translation of his " Lectures on the Philosophy of Life and of Language," in the same 
series in 1847, ^^^ ^ translation of his "Lectures on Modern History," in the same series 
in 1849. His " Historic and Miscellaneous Works " were published in the same series 
in 1849. Friedrich Schlegel is one of the leaders of what is termed the -^Esthetico- 
critical, or Romantic School of Poetry. He died at Dresden Jan. 12, 1829. A com- 
plete edition of his works, in 1 5 vols., has been published at Vienna. A Life of F. 
Schlegel, by J. B. Robertson, is prefixed to his " Lectures on the Philosophy of 
History."] 

The Sixteenth Century was the a^e of ferment and strife, and it was 
not until towards the close of it that the human mind began to recover 
from the violent shock it had sustained. With the seventeenth cen- 
tury new paths of thinking and investigation were opened, owing to 
the revival of classical learning, the extension given to the natural 
sciences and geography, and the general commotion and difference in 
religious belief, occasioned by Protestantism. The first name sug- 
gested by the mention of these several features is Bacon. This mighty 
genius ranks as the father of modern physics, inasmuch as he brought 
back the spirit of investigation from the barren verbal subtleties of the 
schools to nature and experience : he made and completed many im- 
portant discoveries himself, and seems to have had a dim and imperfect 
foresight of many others. Stimulated by his capacious and stirring 
intellect, experimental science extended her boundaries in every direc- 
tion : intellectual culture — nay, the social organization of modern 
Europe generally — assumed new shape and complexion. The ulterior 
consequences of this mighty change became objectionable, dangerous, 
and even terrible in their tendency, at the time when Bacon's followers 
and admirers in the eighteenth century attempted to wrest from mere 
experience and the senses what he had never assumed themto possess — 
namely, the law of life and conduct, and the essentials of faith and 
hope : while they rejected with cool contempt, as fanaticism, every 
exalted hope and soothing affection which could not be practically 
proved. All this was quite contrary, however, to the spirit and aim of 
the founder of this philosophy. In illustration, I would only refer 
here, to that well-known sentence of his, deservedly remembered by 
all : '' A little philosophy inclineth man's mind to atheism, but depth 
in philosophy bringeth man's mind about to rehgion." 

Both in religion and in natural philosophy, this great thinker believed 
many things that would have been regarded as mere superstition hy 



96 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Schlegel. 

his partisans and admirers in later times. Neither is it to be supposed 
that this was a mere conventional acquiescence in an established belief, 
or some prejudice not yet overcome of his education and age. His 
declarations on these very topics relating to a supernatural world, are 
most of all stamped with the characteristic of his clear and penetrating 
spirit. He was a man of feeling as well as of invention, and though 
the world of experience had appeared to him in quite a new light, the 
higher and divine region of the spiritual world, situated far above com- 
mon sensible experience, was not viewed by him either obscurely or 
remotely. How little he partook, I will not merely say of the crude 
materialism of some of his followers, but even of the more refined deifi- 
cation of nature, which during the eighteenth century was transplanted 
from France to Germany, like some rank offshoot of natural philosophy, 
is proved by his views of the substantial essence of a correct physical 
system. The natural philosophy of the ancients was, according to a 
judgment pronounced by himself, open to the following censure — viz., 
"That they held nature to constitute an image of the Divinity, 
whereas it is in conformity with Truth as well as Christianity to regard 
man as the sole image and likeness of his Creator, and to look upon 
nature as his handiwork." In the term Natural Philosophy of the 
Ancients, Bacon evidently includes, as may be seen from the general 
results attributed to it, no mere individual theory or system, but alto- 
gether the best and most excellent fruits of their research within the 
boundaries not only of physical science, but also of mythology and 
natural religion. And when he claims for man exclusively the high 
privilege, according to Christian doctrine, of being the likeness and 
image of God, he is not to be understood as deriving this dignity purely 
from the high position of constituting the most glorious and most com- 
plex of all natural productions : but in the literal sense of the Bible 
that this likeness and image is the gift of God's love and inspiration. 
The figurative expression that nature is not a mirror or image 
of the Godhead, but his handiwork — if comprehended in all its 
profundity, will be seen to convey a perfect explanation of the 
relations of the sensible and the super-sensible world of nature and of 
divinity. It pre-eminently declares the fact that nature has not an inde- 
pendent self-existence, but was created by God for an especial purpose. 
In a word. Bacon's plain and easy discrimination between ancient 
philosophy and his own Christian ideas, is an intelligible and clear rule 
for fixing the right medium between profane and nature-worship on 
the one hand, and gloomy hatred of nature on the other : to which 
latter one-sided reason is peculiarly prone ; when intent only 
upon morality, it is perplexed in its apprehensions of nature, 
and has only imperfect and confused notions of divinity. But 



Hook.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 97 

a right appreciation of the actual diflference between nature and 
God, is the most important point both of thought and belief, of life 
and conduct. Bacon's vnevvs on this head are the more fittingly intro- 
duced here, because the philosophy of our own time is for the most part 
distracted between the two extremes indicated above : the reprehen- 
sible nature-worship of some who do not distinguish between the 
Creator and his works, God and the world : or on the other, the hatred 
and blindness of those despisers of nature, whose reason is exclusively 
directed to their personal destiny. The just medium between these oppo- 
site errors — that is to say, the only correct consideration of nature — is that 
involved in a sense of intimate connexion with her, joined at the same 
time to a conscious conviction of our immeasurable superiority, morally, 
and to a proper awe of those of her elements that significantly point to 
matters of higher import than h'erself. All such vestiges, exciting 
either love or fear, as a silent law, or a prophetic declaration, reveal 
the hand that formed them, and the purpose which they are designed 
to accomplish. — Lectures on the History of Literature, Ancient and 
Modern; lect. xiii. 



37.— THE DUEL. 

[T. E. Hook, 1788— 1841. 

[Theodore Edward Hook, born in London Sep. 22, 1788, was for a short time at 
Harrow. For his father, who was a musical composer, Theodore when a boy wrote 
songs. His first piece, an operatic farce, entitled "The Soldier's Return," intro- 
duced in 1805, proved successful, and was followed by several similar productions. 
His first novel, "The Man of Sorrow," was published in 1809, under the assumed 
name of Alfred Allandale, and in the same year he played off the well known 
" Berners-street Hoax." Hook's performances as an improvisatore attracted the atten- 
tion of the Prince Regent, who interested himself in his behalf, and Hook was 
appointed Accomptant General and Treasurer to the colony of the Mauritius, where 
he arrived Oct. 9, 18 13. In consequence of a deficiency in the treasury. Hook was 
arrested March 9, 18 18, and sent to England. After some investigation he was 
liberated, the Attorney-General having declared that there was no apparent ground 
for a criminal prosecution. Hook wrote for the magazines, and became editor of 
the "John Bull" newspaper, established in 1820. He was arrested on the Govern- 
ment claim in Aug., 1823, and was not released till May, 1825. The first edition 
of his "Sayings and Doings" appeared in 1824; the second series in 1825, and the 
third series in 1830. He wrote several other novels, and amongst them "Gilbert 
Gurney," published in 1835, which is autobiographical. In 1836 he was appointed 
editor of the "New Monthly Magazine." Hook died Aug. 24, 1841. The 
" Quarterly Review," for May, 1842, contains an account of this writer, and his "Life 
and Remains," by the Rev. R. H. D. Barham, appeared in 1848. Hook was remark- 
able for his conversational powers.] 

"Where are we to meet ?" said I. 

" Under the lee of Primrose Hill," said O'Brady ^ "a sporting spot. 
The Major and I had fixed Wimbledon Common j but as the Old 



98 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hook. 

Bailey Sessions are now on, I thought it might be more convenient to 
fight in Middlesex." 

The word Old Bailey Sessions brought to my mind all the scenes I 
had so recently witnessed there, and the peril to which my antagonist, 
if he killed me, might be exposed upon the zigzag system of trial. 
The inviting words, ''hang at eight and breakfast at nine," rang in my 
ears j however, having made up my mind not to fire at Daly, I consoled 
myself with the certainty, that if I escaped the bullet, the halter 
was altogether out of the question. 

We proceeded up the hill of Camden Town 3 and having arrived at 
the lane leading to Chalk Farm, the coach stopped, and we alighted, 
I being, I confess, a little surprised at seeing no weapons wherewith 
we were to contend. However, O'Brady, who had evidently been 
there before, whispered something to the doctor, to which he appeared 

to assent, and the coachman was directed to stop 1 concluded, for 

the purpose of removing my corpse to my lodgings, if I was killed ; 
or my yet living body, if I were only severely wounded. 

" Come on," said O'Brady 3 "don't let us be last on the ground." 

" Where are the pistols?" said I. 

"Och, put your heart at ease about that," said O'Brady 3 '' my man 
Sullivan is under the hedge long before this ; and has got the Mantons 
and the doctor's instrument-case in a carpet-bag. Sully may be 
trusted in such matters, mayn't he, doctor?" 

'' He may, indeed," said the military Esculapius, who appeared to 
me to be just as much pleased as his companion with the deadly lively 
adventure in which we were embarked. 

"There they are," said O'Brady, pointing to two persons at a consi- 
derable distance, who were approaching us in a direction nearly oppo- 
site to that by which we had reached the neighbourhood ; and sure 
enough there I saw Daly — the admirable Daly — once my friend, and, 
perhaps, not even now my enemy — accompanied by a tall, gaunt per- 
sonage, whose name I inquired of the lieutenant. 

"That," said O'Brady, "is Major M'Guflrin." 

" M'Guffin !" said I ; and the history of the depilatory and the 
night-cap flashed into my mind 3 and more than that flashed into my 
mind, the conviction that Daly had succeeded in riveting his fetters 
with the widow ; and by inducing him to undertake the part which, 
in t he earlier stage of the proceeding, he had proposed himself to play, 
secured the augmentation of the gentle Emma's fortune. 

My feelings were considerably excited as we approached the hostile 
pair : it was impossible for me to forget the happy and agreeable hours 
which I spent in Daly's company, nor entirely to oblitetale from my 
recollection t^ie caution of my poor mother, with regard to my asso- 






Hook.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 99 

dates -J for here — as if she had possessed the gift of prophesying — was 
I, after a sort of scapegrace acquaintance with the maddest wag of 
London, destined, perhaps, to terminate ray existence prematurely, in 
consequence of his misconduct. My first impulse was to walk up to 
the rogue, and offer him my hand 3 bnt to do O'Brady justice, his 
anxiety to keep up the quarrel as it stood never relaxed. He desired 
me to stop where I was, while he went forward to speak to the Major 
I obeyed, and entered into a conversation with the surgeon as to the 
healthiness of Hampstead, keeping my eye, however, on the watch foi 
Daly, who seemed to me to be strongly imbued with feelings greatly 
assimilating to my own. However, his major and my lieutenant were 
the gentlemen to be satisfied ; and as it appeared this could not hap- 
pen unless the principals fought, 1 suppose he, as I had already done, 
bowed to the necessity of asserting his courage, as I had felt it impera- 
tive to vindicate my honour 3 and so it w^as that two lives were jeo- 
pardized. 

Major M'^GufiSn having said a few words. Lieutenant O'Bradv 
cried ^'Halloo 3" and out of a ditch sprang his trusty squire, Jem 
Sullivan, with the carpet-bag which contained the weapons 3 and no 
sooner did the surgeon behold this manoeuvre, than he turned to the 
group, and secured his case of instruments 3 and having redelivered 
them to the man, with some particular instructions to be careful of 
them, walked away to a distance, and never turned his face round till 
the event had come off, lest, in case of any accident, he should be 
subpoenaed as a witness. 

Our worthy friends now proceeded to load the pistols, during which 
process I did not in the least know how to act with regard to Daly : 
the time, however, was short, and the heutenant having concluded his 
part of the business, walked up to me, and desired me to stand where 
he placed me : he then stepped out six paces 3 at the end of which 
Major M'Guffin stepped out six more : at the end of which he placed 
Daly, to whom he gave one of his pistols, as the lieutenant handed 
me one of his. 

" Gentlemen," said Major M'Guffin, ''^ we have agreed that you are 
to fire together by signal 3 one, two, three: — raise and present at the 
one, two 3 and fire at the three." 

'' Now," said Daly, "^ just one word : we are met here to answer the 
call of Mr. Gurney3 no opportunity has been afforded me of ex- 
plaining to him the circumstances which " 

" Sir," said Lieutenant O'Brady, " I have no doubt you mean 
extremely well 3 but we are here to fight, sir, and not to talk." 

*'But," said I, ''Lieutenant O'Brady " 

H 2 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hook. 



"Mr. Gurney," said the lieutenant, ''^you are not in a position to 
speak : we are not to be trifled with, sir." 

" Oh, well," said Daly, "^ no more are we j therefore to business, 
and the sooner the better." 

" Are you ready, gentlemen ?" said the major : '' yes," was the reply 

"One, two >" and before the gallant officer could get any 

farther my pistol, which had the hair-trigger set, went off 3 and the 
ball having grazed the calf of my leg, and ripped up the side of my 
pantaloons, lodged in the ground immediately at my foot. I was 
never more mortified in my life — the thing was so awkward — not to 
speak of a stinging sort of feeling, which the scraping off of the flesh 
inflicted. 

"That comes of hair-triggers," said Daly, coolly. 

"Why don't you fire, Mr. Daly?" said the major. 

"I?" said Daly. 

" To be sure," said the major j "the other gentleman has had his shot." 

" Faith, it is so," said the lieutenant j "go on, sir 3 go on." 

" Not I, by Jove !" said Daly ; " unless Mr. Gurney takes his other 
pistol, and fires at me." 

" He can do no such thing," said both the gentlemen. 

"Very well, then," said Daly, "if I am to fire, I suppose I may 
choose my own direction:" saying which, he raised his pistol per- 
pendicularly, and fired in the air. 

" The devil, sir ! " said his major 3 " what are you about ?" 

" Do you mean to affront my friend, sir?" said my lieutenant. 

" Not I, by heaven!" said Daly 3 "no more than I ever meant to 
injure him. You had better, in the first instance, call your surgeon, 
and see that he is not more hurt than you fancy. I came here at 
his call, and will stay here as long as he likes 3 but I will not take 
advantage of an accident." 

"Mighty handsome," said the lieutenant 3 "that I must say 3 but 
we want no doctor yet 3 so let us proceed 3 and now mind, Mr. 
Gurney, mind and be more careful the next time." 

What might have happened had the combat continued, it is im- 
possible to say 3 it was destined to terminate without any other 
bloodshed than that which, by my gaucherie, I had caused 3 for scarcely 
had the words "next time" escaped the lips of the gallant lieutenant, 
before five or six men, three or four boys, and two or three constables, 
bounced over a stile, which gave, or rather hindered, entrance to the 
field. Two of the fellows rushed at me, and seized me by the collar. 
The doctor took to his heels in the direction of the instrument-case 3 
and Daly, who was a dab at everything, took a hedge and ditch with 
a run like that of a Leicestershire hunter equal to sixteen stone. 



Prescott.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 



Major M'Guffin, in an endeavour to follow his leader, stuck in a 
hawthorn bush, but was eventually lugged out by his principal, who, 
taking advantage of the peculiar care and attention with which the 
Bow-street patroles — as they turned out to be — favoured me and the 
lieutenant, was over the hills and "far away" before any of the heavy- 
heeled Christians could touch him. Of one they were secure ; although 
my self-inflicted wound was "neither as deep as a w^ell, nor as wide as a 
church door," it prevented my following the example of the gallant 
fugitives, whose departure, I honestly confess, was one of the most 
agreeable sights I ever saw, convinced as I was, that Daly had no 
more desire to hit me, than I had to touch him. 

The sequel was unpleasant — the Philistine would by no means let 
us go ; and the consequence was, that, although the gallant Galen 
declared he would not be answerable for what might happen if I were 
suddenly transported to the police office to enter into sureties to keep 
the peace, they unmercifully bundled me and my gallant second into 
our own hackney-coach, which had been, at their suggestion, brought 
up the lane. The indignation of my fiery friend, O'Brady, at this 
interference of the law with our arrangement, was beyond description 
great 3 but whatever this interruption might have cost him, it was 
nothing compared with his fury when one of the myrmidons insisted 
upon keeping his pistols. I never saw a man in such a rage in my 
life : however, as I anticipated, I had sufficient influence at Bow-street 
(the smouldering remnant of my early acquaintance with the chief 
magistrate) to get the matter arranged much to his satisfaction. I 
entered into the required recognisances ; and by the intervention of 
Mr. Stafford, the chief clerk j^who seemed to me to manage the whole 
business of the office, 

" Ride on the whirlwind, and direct the storm," 

obtained the restoration of O'Brady's "barking irons," as he called 
them 3 to the peculiarly delicate touch of whose double detente I was 
specially indebted for a wound in my leg, which, although by no 
means serious, was not by any means agreeable. — Gilbert Gurney, vol. 
ii. ch. 3. 



38.— THE VALLEY AND CITY OF MEXICO. 

[W. H. Prescott, 1796— 1859. 

[William Hickling Prescott was born at Salem, Massachusetts, May 4, 1796. He 

entered Harvard University in 1811, and his father being possessed of ample means, 

he resolved to devote his attention to literature. A selection of his contributions to 

various American periodicals was published in 1843. He visited Europe, spent 



I02 THE EFERY-DAY BOOhr [Prescott. 

much time at Madrid, and in 1838 published "The History of Ferdinand and Isabella 
the Catholic of Spain." This was followed by " The History of the Conquest of 
Mexico," in 1843; and "The History of the Conquest of Peru," in 1847. The 
first two volumes of "The History of Philip the Second" appeared in 1855, and his 
edition of Robertson's " History of Charles V.," in 1856. This was followed by 
other literary productions. Prescott's works have been republished in England, and 
translated into many modern languages. He died Jan. 28, 1859. His life, by George 
Ticknor, was published in 1864.] 

The troops refreshed by a night's rest, succeeded, early on the following 
day, in gaining the crest of the sierra of Ahualco, which stretches like 
a curtain between the two great mountains on the north and south. 
Their progress was now comparatively easy, and they marched forward 
with a buoyant step as they felt they were treading the soil of 
Montezuma. 

They had not advanced far, when, turning an angle of the sierra, 
they suddenly came on a view which more than compensated the 
toils of the preceding day. It was that of the Valley of Mexico, or 
Tenochtitlan, as more commonly called by the natives ; which with 
its picturesque assemblage of water, woodland, and cultivated plains, 
its shining cities, and shadowy hills, was spread out like some gay and 
gorgeous panorama before them. In the highly rarefied atmosphere 
of these upper regions, even remote objects have a brilliancy of 
colouring and a distinctness of outline which seem to annihilate dis- 
tance. Stretching far away at their feet, were seen noble forests of 
oak, sycamore, and cedar, and beyond, yellow fields of maize and 
the towering maguey, intermingled with orchards and blooming gar- 
dens ; for flowers, in such demand for their religious festivals, were 
ev^en more abundant in this populous valley than in other parts of 
Anahuac. In the centre of the great basin were beheld the lakes, 
occupying then a much larger portion of its surface than at present j 
their borders thickly studded with towns and hamlets, and, in the 
midst, like some Indian empress with her coronal of pearls, — the fair 
city of Mexico, with her white towers and pyramidal temples, re- 
posing, as it were, on the bosom of the waters, — the far-famed 
*' Venice of the Aztecs." High over all rose the royal hill of Chapol- 
tepec, the residence of the Mexican monarchs, crowned with the same 
grove of gigantic cypresses which at this day fling their broad shadows 
over the land. In the distance beyond the blue waters of the lake, 
and nearly screened by intervening foliage, was seen a shining speck, 
the rival capital of Tezcuco, and still further on, the dark belt of 
porphyry, girdhng the valley around, like a rich setting which nature 
had devised for the fairest of her jewels. 

Such was the beautiful vision which broke on the eyes of the Con- 
querors. And even now, when so sad a change has come over the 



Osborn.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. id'3 

scene, when the stately forests have been laid low, and the soil, un- 
sheltered from the fierce radiance of a tropical sun, is in many places 
abandoned to sterility ; when the waters have retired, leaving a broad 
and ghastly margin white with the incrustation of salts, while the 
cities and hamlets on their borders have mouldered into ruins, even now 
that desolation broods over the landscape, so indestructible are the 
lines of beauty which Nature has traced on its features, that no 
traveller, however cold, can gaze on them with any other emotions 
than those of astonishment and rapture. 

What, then, must have been the emotions of the Spaniards, when, 
after working their toilsome way into the upper air, the cloudy taber- 
nacle parted before their eyes, and they beheld these fair scenes in all 
their pristine magnificence and beauty? It was like the spectacle 
which greeted the eyes of Moses from the summit of Pisgah, and, in the 
warm glow of their feelings, they cried out, '' It is the promised land !" 

But these feelings of admiration were soon followed by others of a 
very different complexion ; as they saw in all this the evidences of a 
civilization and power far superior to anything they had yet encountered. 
The more timid, disheartened by the prospect, shrunk from a contest 
so unequal, and demanded, as they had done on some former occa- 
sions, to be led back again to Vera Cruz, Such was not the effect 
produced on the sanguine spirit of the general. His avarice was sharp- 
ened by the display of the dazzling spoil at his feet 3 and, if he felt a 
natural anxiety at the formidable odds, his confidence was renewed, as 
he gazed on the lines of his veterans, whose weather-beaten visages 
and battered armour told of battles won and difficulties surmounted, 
while his bold barbarians, with appetites whetted by the view of their 
enemies' country, seemed like eagles on the mountains, ready to 
pounce upon their prey. By argument, entreaty, and menace, he en- 
deavoured to restore the faltering courage of the soldiers, urging them 
not to think of retreat, now that they had reached the goal for which 
they had panted, and the golden gates were opened to receive them. 
In these efforts he was well seconded by the brave cavaliers, who held 
honour as dear to them as fortune 3 until the dullest spirits caught 
somewhat of the enthusiasm of their leaders, and the general had the 
satisfaction to see his hesitating columns, with their usual buoyant step, 
once more on their march down the slopes of the sierra. — History of the 
Conquest of Mexico j b. iii. ch. 8. 



39.— THE BUTTERFLY 'iKlCK. 

[S. Osborn, 1820. 
[Sherard Osborn, born in 1820, entered the Royal Navy at an early age, and was 
present at the attack upon Canton in 1841. He became lieutenant in 1846, com- 



I04 THE EVERY-DAY BOOft [Osborn. 

mander in 1852, and captain in 1855, and has served with distinction in both China 
and Japan. His "Stray Leaves from an Arctic Journal" appeared in 1852; 
"Quedah; or. Stray Leaves from a Journal in Malayan Waters" in 1857; " -A- 
Cruise in Japanese Waters" in 1859; "The Career, Last Voyage, and Fate of Sir 
John Franklin" in i860; and "The Past and Future of British Relations in China" 
also in i860. Captain Osborn has contributed largely to periodical literature.] 

On the 2^th August, Lord Elgin invited all the Commissioners to 
dinner, and they came an hour before time, bringing a Japanese con- 
juror to enable his Excellency to judge of their skill in tricks of leger- 
demain. An impromptu theatre was soon formed of an apartment, 
one side of which opened out upon the temple garden j chairs and 
benches were ranged on the well-kept lawn, and the Ambassador, 
Commissioners, the suite, and a large body of officers, formed the 
audience. The conjuror was a gentlemanly-looking venerable man, 
clad in ample silk robes. He had as an assistant a wretch who tapped 
incessantly upon a small drum, and by his remarks, unintelligible, of 
course, to ourselves, he served to amuse the Japanese who crowded 
behind us. The old man performed many tricks of legerdemain, in a 
manner that equalled anything we had ever before seen 3 but when he 
proceeded to show the far-famed butterfly trick, all were fairly wonder- 
stricken. 

Our Japanese Merlin was seated cross-legged about ten yards from 
us, upon the raised platform of the floor of the apartment 3 behind 
him was a gold-coloured screen, with a painting of the peak of Fusi- 
hama in blue and white upon its glittering ground. He threw up 
the sleeves of his dress, and showed a piece of tissue paper which he 
held in his hand. It was about six inches square, and by dexterous 
and delicate manipulation, he formed it into a very good imitation of a 
butterfly, the wings being extended, and at the most each was one 
inch across. Holding the butterfly out in the palm of his hand, to 
show what it was, he placed two candles, which v/ere beside him, in 
such a position as to allow him to wave a fan rapidly without aftecting 
the flame, and then, by a gentle motion of this fan over the paper 
insect, he proceeded to set it in motion. A counter-draught of air 
from some quarter interfered with his efforts, and made the butterfly 
truant to his will, and the screen had to be moved a little to remedy 
this. He then threw the paper butterfly up in the air, and gradually it 
seemed to acquire life from the action of his fan — now wheeling and 
dipping towards it, now tripping along its edge, then hovering over it, 
as we may see a butterfly do over a flower on a fine summer's day, 
then in wantonness wheeling away, and again returning to alight, the 
wings quivering with nervous restlessness ! One could have sworn it 
was a live creature. Now it flew off to the light, and then the con- 



Gatty.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 105 

juror recalled it, and presently supplied a mate in the shape of another 
butterfly, and together they rose and played about the old man's fan, 
varying their attentions between flirting with one another and flirling 
along the edge of the fan. We repeatedly saw one on each side of it 
as he held it nearly vertically, and gave the fan a short quick motion ; 
then one butterfly would pass over to the other, both would wheel 
away as if in play, and again return. A plant with some flowers 
stood in a pot near at hand 3 by gentle movements of the fan the 
pretty little creatures were led up to it, and then, their delight ! how 
they played about the leaves, sipped the flowers, kissed each other, and 
whisked off^ again with all the airs and graces of real butterflies ! The 
audience was in ecstasies, and yoang and old clapped their hands with 
dehght. •The exhibition ended, when the old man advanced to the 
front of his stage, within arm's length of us all, accompanied by his 
magic butterflies, that even in the open air continued to play round 
the magician and his fan ! As a feat of legerdemain, it was by far 
the most beautiful trick we had ever heard of, and one that must 
require an immense amount of practice. — A Cruise in Japanese Waters, 
chap. X. 



40.— NIGHT AND DAY. 

[Mrs. Gatty, 1809. 
[Margaret, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Scott, formerly Chaplain to Lord Nelson, was 
born at Burnham Parsonage, Essex, in 1809, and married in 1839 the Rev. A. Gatty, 
D.D., Vicar of Ecclesfield, near Sheffield. Her first vs^ork, "The Fairy Godmothers, 
and other Tales," appeared in 1851. This was followed by "Parables from Nature" 
in 1855. Of this work three series have appeared. This authoress has also written 
" Proverbs Illustrated," published in 1857, and several other works.] 

" The city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it ; for the glory 
of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the Light thereof." — Rev. xxi. 23, 

In old times, long, long ago, when Night and Day were young and 
foolish, and had not discovered how necessary they were to each other's 
happiness and well-being, they chased each other round the world in 
a state of angry disdain ; each thinking that he alone was doing good, 
and that therefore the other, so totally unlike himself in all respects, 
must be doing harm, and ought to be got rid of altogether, if possible. 
Old northern tales say that they rode, each of them, in a car with a 
horse to it 3 but the horse of Night had a frosty mane, while that of Day 
had a shiny one. Moreover, foam fell from Frosty-mane's bit as he went 
along, which dropped on the earth as dew ; and Shiny-mane's mane 
was so radiant that it scattered light through the air at every step. And 
thus they drove on, bringing darkness and light over the earth in turn — 



io6 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Gatty. 

each pursuing and pursued 5 but knowing so little of this simple fact, 
that one of their chief causes of dispute was, which was going first. 
For, of course, if they had been able to settle that, it would have been 
known which was the more important of the two ; but as they drove 
in a circle the point could not be decided, since what was first on the 
one side was sure to be last on the other, as anybody may see who tries 
to draw their journey. They never gave this a thought, however, and 
there were no schoolmasters about just then to teach them. So round 
and round the world they went, without even knowing that it was 
round, still less that there was no such thing as first and last in a 
circle. And they never succeeded in overtaking, so as to pass each 
other, though they sometimes came up very close, and then there was 
twilight. 

Of the two, one grumbled and the other scolded the most, and it is 
easy to guess which did which. Night was gloomy by nature, 
especially when clouds hid the moon and the stars, so her complaints 
took a serious and melancholy tone. She was really broken-hearted 
at the exhaustion produced all over the world by the labourc and plea- 
sures which were carried on under the light of Day, and used to 
receive the earth back as if it was a sick child, and she a nurse, who 
had a right to be angry with what had been done to it. Day, on the 
contrary, was amazingly cheerful, particularly when the sun shone j 
never troubled his head about what was to happen when his fan was 
over : on the contrary, thought his fun ought to last for ever, because 
it was pleasant, was quite vexed when it was put a stop to, and had no 
scruple in railing at his rival ; whose only object, as it seemed to him, 
was to overshadow and put an end to all the happiness that was to be 
found. 

"Cruel Night," he exclaimed, "what a life you lead me! How 
you thwart me at every turn ! What trouble I have to take to keep 
your mischief in check. Look at the mists and shadows 1 must drive 
on one side before I can make the world bright with my beautiful 
light! And, no sooner have I done so, than I feel your cold unwhole- 
some breath trying to come up to me behind ! But you shall never 
overtake me if I can help it, though I know that is what you want. 
You want to throw your hateful black shadow over my bright and 
pleasant world." 

"I doing mischief which you have to keep in checK !" groaned 
Night, quite confused by the accusation. " I, whose whole time is 
spent in trying to repair the mischief other people do : your mischief, 
in fact, you wasteful consumer of life and power ! Every twelve 
hours I get back from you a half worn-out world, and this I am ex- 
pected to restore and make as good as new again, but how is it 



I 



Gatty.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 107 

possible ? Something I can do, I know. Some wear and tear I can 
renew and refresh, but some alas ! I cannot 3 and thus creep in de- 
struction and death." 

" Hear her," cried Day, in contempt, '' taunting me with the 
damage I do, and the death and destruction I cause ! I, the Life-giver, 
at whose word the whole world awakes, which else might lie asleep 
for ever. She, the grim likeness of the death she talks about, and 
bringing death's twin sister in her bosom." 

"You are Day the destroyer, Ij Night the restorer," persisted Night, 
evading the argument. 

" I am Day the life-giver, you. Night the desolator," replied Day, 
bitterly. 

" I am Night the restorer, you. Day the destroyer," repeated Night. 

" You are to me what death is to life," shouted Day. 

" Then death is a restorer as I am," exclaimed Night. 

And so they went on, like all other ignorant and obstinate arguers ; 
each full of his own one idea^, and taking no heed of what the other 
might say. How could the truth be got at by such means ? Of 
course it could not, and of course, therefore, they persisted in their 
rudeness. And there were certain seasons, particularly, when they 
became more impertinent to each other than ever. For instance, 
whenever it was summer. Day's horse. Shiny-mane, got so strong and 
frisky that Night had much ado to keep her place at all^ so closely was 
she pressed in the chase. Indeed, sometimes there was so little of her 
to be seen, that people might have doubted whether she had passed by 
at all, had it not been for the dew Frosty-mane scattered, and which 
those saw who got up early enough in the morning. 

Oh, the boasting of Day at these times ! And really he believed 
what he said. He really thought that it would be the greatest possible 
blessing if he were to go on for ever, and there were to be no Night. 
Perhaps he had the excuse of having heard a whisper of some old 
tradition to that effect 3 but the principal cause of the mistake was, 
that he thought too much about himself and too little about his neigh- 
bour. " Fortunate world," cried he 3 " it must be clear to every one, 
now, who it is that brings blessings and does good to you and your 
inhabitants. Good old earth, yoQ become more and more lovely and 
fruitful, the more and more I shorten the hours of Night and lengthen 
my own. We can do tolerably well without her restoring power, it 
would seem ! If we could be rid of her altogether, therefore, what a 
Paradise there would be ! Then the foliage, the flowers, the fruits, 
the precious crops of this my special season, would last for ever. 
Would that it could remain uninterrupted!" — Parables from Nature. 
Third and Fourth Series. Night and Day. 



io8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Byron. 



41.— GREECE, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 

[Lord Byron, 1788 — 1824. 

[George Gordon, Lord Byron, born in Holies-street, London, Jan. 22, 1788, 
was educated at Harrow and Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1807, "Hours of 
Idleness, by Lord Byron, a Minor," appeared at Newark. This youthful production 
was ruthlessly assailed in No. 22 of "The Edinburgh Review" for January, 1808, 
which had only then been recently established. Such unfriendly criticism excited the 
ire of the young author, who retaliated in " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," 
published in 1809. This production, in which most of the leading literary men of 
the time were satirised, at once rendered its author famous. Byron then travelled in 
Greece, Turkey, and the East ; and the first two cantos of " Childe Harold" appeared in 
March, 1812. "The Giaour" and "The Bride of Abydos" appeared in 1813; the 
" Corsair" and " Lara" in 1814; the third canto of " Childe Harold" in 1816, and 
the fourth canto, which completed the poem, April 28, 1818. Byron wrote, in 
addition to other poems, several dramatic works, the most celebrated of which are 
"Marino Faliero " and " Sardanapalus," both, published in 1821, and "Werner" in 
1822. The first two cantos of "Don Juan" appeared in 1819, and the last two in 
1824. Lord Byron was not happy in his domestic relations. His parents separated 
soon after his birth, and the young poet lived at Aberdeen with his mother, who was 
in very reduced circumstances until, in his eleventh year, he inherited from his grand- 
uncle a title and Newstead Abbey. Here, at fifteen, he fell in love with Mary 
Chaworth, whose father had been killed in a duel by the poet's grand-uncle. This 
early attachment forms the subject of a small poem, " The Dream." He married 
the daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke in Oct., 1814. A separation ensued in Jan., 
18 16. One child, Ada, born Dec. 10, 18 15, afterwards Countess of Lovelace, was 
the sole fruit of this marriage. She died Nov. 27, 1852. Byron repaired to Greece 
to assist in the struggle for independence, and reached Missolonghi in Jan., 1824. His 
exertions in the cause brought on a severe attack of rheumatic fever, under which the 
poet succumbed at Missolonghi, April 19, 1824. Several editions of his collected 
works have been published, and his life has been written by numerous authors. His 
papers were entrusted to his friend, the poet Moore, who edited an edition of his 
"Life, Letters, and Journals," published in 1830.] 

No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb* which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff. 
High o'er the land he saved in vain 5 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 



* Above the rocks on the promontory, and supposed by some to be the tomb of 
Themistocles. 



Byron.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 109 

Which, seen from far Colonna's height. 

Make glad the heart that hails the sight. 

And lend to loneliness delight. 

There mildly dimpling. Ocean's cheek 

Reflects the tints of many a peak 

Caught by the laughing waves that lave 

These Edens of the Eastern wave : 

And if at times a transient breeze 

Break the blue crystal of the seas. 

Or sweep one blossom from the trees. 

How welcome is each gentle air 

That wakes and wafts the odours there ! 

For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale. 

Sultana of the Nightingale,* 

The maid for whom his melody. 

His thousand songs, are heard on high, 

Blooms, blushing to her lover's tale : 

His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 

Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows. 

Far from the winters of the west. 

By every breeze and season blest. 

Returns the sweets by nature given 

In softest incense back to heaven ; 

And grateful yields that smiling sky 

Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 

And many a summer flower is there. 

And many a shade that love might share. 

And many a grotto, meant for rest, 

That holds the pirate for a guest 5 

Whose bark in sheltering cove below 

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow. 

Till the gay mariner's guitarf 

Is heard, and seen the evening star ; 

Then stealing with the muffled oar. 

Far shaded by the rocky shore. 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey. 

And turn to groans his roundelay. 

Strange — that where nature loved to trace. 

As if for gods, a dwelling place. 



* The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well known Persian fable, 
t The constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night. 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK CByron. 

And every charm and grace hath mix'd 

Within the paradise she fix'd. 

There man_, enamour' d of distress. 

Should mar it into wilderness. 

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 

That tasks not one laborious hour ; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land. 

But springs as to preclude his care. 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside. 

There passion riots in her pride, , 

And lust and rapine wildly reign 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd. 

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy. 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled. 
The first dark day of nothingness. 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
And mark'd the mild angelic air. 
The rapture of repose that's there. 
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the pallid cheek. 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, • 

And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart. 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon j 
Yes, but for these and these alone^ 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour. 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power j 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 
The first, last look by death reveal'd ! 



Byron.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 

Such is the aspect of this shore ! 
'Tis Greece, but hving Greece no more ! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death. 
That parts not quite with parting breath j 
But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish' d earth ! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave, 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be. 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave. 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own : 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires j 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theii-s a name of fear 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For Freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ! 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb. 



THE Ef'ERY-DAY BOOK [Townsend. 

A mightier monument command^ 
The mountains of thy native land ! 
There points thy muse to stranger's eye 



The graves of those that cannot die ! 



The Giaour. 



42.— HOME IXFLUENXES. 

[Rev. G. Towksexd, 17SS — 1S57. 

[George Townsend, son of the Rev, G. To^vnsend, of Ramsgate, and nephew of the 
Rev. J. Townsend, founder of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, London, was bom at 
Ramsgate, Sept. 1 2, 1 7SS. He -sN-as educated at Christ's Hospital and Trinity 
College. Cambridge, and published some poems at an early age. His "Chronolo- 
gical Arrangement of the Old Testament" appeared in 182 1, and of the New Testa- 
ment in 1S25. Both works have since gone through several editions. In 1825 he 
was appointed Prebendary- of Durham. His "Accusations of Historj' against the 
Church of Rome" appeared in 1S26; his "Ecclesiastical and C\\\\ Histor}-, Philo- 
sophically considered-with Reference to the future Reunion of Christians," in i847,and 
his " Scriptural Communion with God," &c., between the years 1845 ^"^ 1849. H'- 
" Journal of a Tour in Italy in 1850, with an Account of an Inteniew with the Pope 
at the Vatican," appeared in 1S50. Dr. ToAvnsend died Nov. 23, 1857.] 

The biography of the most ilkistrious men of all ages, proves the truth 
of one remarkable fact, that those who have been eminent for good- 
ness, greatness, or virtue, have generally owed the excellence which 
has been the basis of their reputation to the teaching, the example, or the 
influence of their mothers at home. The mother is the chief biasser 
for good or evil of the mind of the child. Before the tutor, the 
master, or the clergyman, can impart one lesson, either of a secular or 
of a religious nature, the soul of the child has received its earliest, and, 
very frequently, its most indelible impressions. That Christian mother, 
tlierefore, neglects her first, and most bounden dut}', who permits the 
earlier years of infancy to pass away, without elevating the primal 
thoughts of her child to God. If the Christian mother do not teach 
her beloved olfspring to pray as soon as it can clasp its hands, bend its 
knee, or lisp its first stammering words : if, when her child is bom into 
the world, the mother do not hear, as it were, a voice from heaven, 
saying to her, with more than mortal eloquence, "Take this child, and 
nurse it for God : take this child and train it up to live here as the 
spiritual member of Christ's Holy Catholic Apostolic Church on earth, 
and to live hereafter as a member of Christ's Holy Church, triumphant 
over evil in heaven," she is the enemy of the soul of her child. The 
day must come when death shall part die mother from her children. 
At that hour, when all the gold, and wealth, and fame, and honour in 
the world, which children are so often taught 10 regard as the only 



Townsend.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 113 

things needful, shall appear as the toys of forgotten infancy, or as a 
heap of sand to the traveller who is dying for a drop of water in the 
desert — how bitter will be the remembrance of the mother who has 
seen her children depart from the ways of peace and true happiness, 
into folly, worldliness, or wickedness ; if she is compelled to check her 
dying remonstrances to her children, and to say, " I am to blame j I 
dedicated my children to God by holy baptism in their infancy, but I 
taught them no prayer. I neglected religion in the nursery. Their 
early days began and ended, without my attempting to direct their 
hearts. to God. I taught them to please man, and not Godj to adorn 
the body and neglect the soul. I feel — I see — I know the vanity of all 
things but the religion which should speak peace to the dying j yet 
now my words mock me, when I w^ould pronounce a blessing, or utter 
my words of parting advice to my children. Oh ! that I had practised 
as well as known my duty. Oh ! that I had valued the best happi- 
ness of a Christian mother, and enabled them to thank their dying 
parent for the care she had bestowed on their souls. Oh ! that I had 
endeavoured to bias the minds of my dear children, as I now wish that 
I had done, when the hour of my death is before me !" 

The same reflections are applicable to fathers as well as to mothers. 
If remorse and self-reproach will attend a dying mother, w^ho reflects 
on the neglect of the souls of her children, when they are committed 
to her more peculiar charge 3 no less w^ill the Christian father mourn 
at the last, if he be guilty of the same crime. The children descend 
from the nursery, to the parlour, the drawing-room, the fireside. If 
the religious mother has consecrated the nursery to God in such 
manner that every day has been begun and ended with the lisped and 
broken prayer, it becomes the duty of a religious father to go on with 
the good work that is begun — to make the domestic hearth the first 
Church, and to bring back, as it were, the days of the pristine Para- 
dise to an united religious Christian family. The first Church upon 
earth was a family ; the first priest was a father 3 the first congregation 
were the elder and the younger children 3 the first altar w^as the 
domestic spot around which they assembled to worship. So it may 
still be. Every family may I e regarded as a Church; every father as 
a priest to offer prayers 3 every child and servant as the member of a 
domestic congregation 3 ever}^ spot in the house set apart for worship, 
as the altar at home, to which the lambs of Christ's fold should be 
duly brought, as living sacrifices to the God of all the families of the 
earth, " holy, acceptable to God, a reasonable service." The impres- 
sions of the nursery must continue in the household, and the further 
preparation thus be made at home for the public reception of the 
baptized child into the communion of the visible church. The stones 

I 



114 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Locke. 

of the temple which Solomon built and dedicated, and which the God 
of Israel accepted and possessed, were prepared at a distance from 
Jerusalem 3 they were squared and polished on the spot where they 
were found, until the " great stones, and the costly stones, and the 
hewn stones," were ready for their removal. They were all, one by 
one, gradually taken away from their native home, to be placed in 
their destined positions in the temple, without any sound of the axe 
or the hammer within the sacred precincts of the holy city; till 
'^ like some tall palm the noiseless fabric grew," and the temple of 
Jerusalem was completed. Just so it must be in these latter days ; 
and just so it will be, if the parents of families will do their duty tc 
their children and their servants. If we desire the building up of the 
Holy Catholic Apostolic Church on earth ; if we seek for the exten- 
sion of the Church of Christ among ourselves -, if we pray for the 
peace of our Jerusalem; if we would say to Jerusalem, "Thou shalt be 
built;" and to the temple, "Thy foundations shall be laid;" — we 
must prepare in our domestic circles the polished stones of the temple, 
for their places in the House of the Lord. If parents of families would 
thus do their duty to their baptized children ; if the Christian father 
would but proceed with the domestic religion which the Christian 
mother has begun ; then the temples of Christ would silently and 
slowly, but surely and certainly, spring up among us. The fountains 
of infidelity, and of indifference to religion, would be stopped at their 
source. The general demoralization would be suspended. The im- 
pure literature which curses our age would become distasteful even to 
the young, for whom it is especially written ; and one generation 
would not pass away before a national reformation would follow the 
prevalence of domestic religion. — Scriptural Communion with God, 
vol. i, ; Dedication, B. i. 



43.— READING. 

[John Locke, 1632 — 1704. 
[John Locke, born at Wrington, near Bristol, Aug. 29, 1632, and educated at West- 
minster, and Christchurch, Oxford, went to Berlin as secretary to Sir W. Swan, Envoy 
to the Elector of Brandenburg, in 1664. He afterwards took up his residence with 
Lord Ashley, created Earl of Shaftesbury in 1672. To the varied fortunes of this 
nobleman Locke adhered. He held several public appointments, was Commissioner of 
Appeals in 1689, and one of the Commissioners of Trade and Plantations in 1695. His 
" Essay Concerning the Human Understanding," in four books, appeared in 1690, an 
epitome of the same having been published anonymously in 1688, and his "Vindi- 
cation of the Reasonableness of Christianity" in 1695. He was the author of several 
other works, amongst which may be mentioned the " Essay on the Conduct of the 
Understanding," published in 1706, after his death, which took place at the house 



Locke.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 115 

of his friend, with whom he had long resided. Sir Francis Masham, at Oates, 
Essex, Oct. 28, 1704. Locke's works were republished in 17 14, and several editions 
have since appeared. An account of his life and writings, by Le Clerc, appeared in 
1 7 13, memoirs by Bishop Law in 1742, and Lord King's Life in 1829.] 

This is that which I think great readers are apt to be mistaken in. 
Those who have read of everything, are thought to understand every- 
thing too ; but it is not always so. Reading furnishes the mind only 
with materials of knowledge 3 it is thinking makes what we read ours. 
We are of the ruminating kind, and it is not enough to cram ourselves 
with a great load of collections ; unless we chew them over again, 
they will not give us strength and nourishment. There are, indeed, 
in some writers visible instances of deep thoughts^ close and acute 
reasoning, and ideas well pursued. The light these would give would 
be of great use, if their reader would observe and imitate them ; ail 
the rest at best are but particulars fit to be turned into knowledge ; 
but that can be done only by our own meditation, and examining the 
reach, force, and coherence of what is said ; and then^ as far as we 
apprehend and see the connection of ideas, so far it is ours -, without 
that, it is but so much loose matter floating in our brain. The 
memory may be stored, but the judgment is httle better, and the 
stock of knowledge not increased, by being able to repeat what others 
have said, or produce the arguments we have found in them. Such a 
knowledge as this is but knowledge by hearsay, and the ostentation of 
it is at best but talking by rote, and very often upon weak and wrong 
principles. For all that is to be found in books is not built upon true 
foundations, nor always rightly deduced from the principles it is pre- 
tended to be built on. Such an examen as is requisite to discover 
that, every reader's mind is not forward to make 3 especially in those 
who have given themselves up to a party, and only hunt for what they 
can scrape together, that may favour and support the tenets of it. 
Such men wilfully exclude themselves from truth, and from all true 
benefit to be received by reading. Otliers of more indifferency often 
want attention and industry. The mind is backward in itself to be at 
the pains to trace every argument to its original, and to see upon what 
basis it stands, and how firmly 3 but yet it is this that gives so much 
tlie advantage to one man more than another in reading. The mind 
should by severe rules be tied down to this, at first, uneasy task 5 use 
and exercise will give it facility. So that those who are accustomed to 
it, readily, as it were with one cast of the eye, take a view of the 
argument, and presently, in most cases, see where it bottoms. Those 
who have got this faculty, one may say, have got the true key of 
books, and the clue to lead them through the mizmaze of variety of 
opinions and authors to trutli and certainty. This young beginners 

I 2 



ii6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Sterne. 

should be entered in, and shown the use of, that they might profit by 
their reading. Those who are strangers to it will be apt to think it too 
great a clog in the way of men's studies and they will suspect they 
shall make bat small progress, if, in the books they read, they must 
stand to examine and unravel every argument, and follow it step by 
step up to its original. 

I answer, this is a good objection, and ought to weigh with those 
whose reading is designed for much talk and little knowledge, and I 
have nothing to say to it. But I am here enquiring into the conduct 
of the understanding in its progress towards knowledge ; and to those 
who aim at that, I may say, that he who fair and softly goes steadily 
forward in a course that points right, will sooner be at his journey's 
end than he that runs after every one he meets, though he gallop all 
day fall-speed. 

To which let me add, that this w^ay of thinking on, and profiting 
by, what we read, will be a clog and rub to any one only in the 
beginning : when custom and exercise have made it familiar, it will be 
dispatched, on most occasions, without resting or interruption in the 
course of our reading. The motions and views of a mind exercised 
that way are wonderfully qaick ; and a man used to such sort of 
reflections sees as much at one glimpse as would require a long dis- 
course to lay before another, and make out in an entire and gradual 
deduction. Besides that, when the first difficulties are over, the delight 
and sensible advantage it brings mightily encourages and enlivens the 
mind in reading, which, without this is very improperly called study. 



44.— THE STARLING, OR, THE BLESSINGS OF LIBERTY. 

[Rev. L. Sterne, 17 13 — 1768. 

[Laurence Stehne was born at Clonmel, in Ireland, November 24, 1713. He 
was educated at a school near Halifax, and Jesus College, Cambridge, where he took 
his degree in January, 1736. Soon after quitting the university he obtained the 
living of Sutton, in Yorkshire. Having married in 1741, he obtained the living of 
Stillington from a friend of his wife. The first two volumes of "Tristram Shandy," 
published anonymously at York in 1759, were reprinted in London 1760. The suc- 
cess of the work was great, and the secret of the authorship was quickly divulged. 
Sterne published two volumes of sermons in 1760, the third and fourth volumes of 
"'IVistram Shandy" in 1761, the fifth and sixth volumes in 1762, and the seventh 
and eighth volumes in 1765. Two additional volumes of sermons appeared in 1766, 
the ninth volume of "Tristram Shandy" in 1767, and "A Sentimental Journey in 
France and Italy" early in 1768. The author died in Bond Street, March 18, 1768, 
soon after the jjublication of the " Sentimental Journey." Some sermons and letters 
were published after his death. Sir Walter Scott says, " Sterne may be recorded as 
at once one of the most affected, and one of the most simple of writers — as one of 



Sterne.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 117 

. the greatest plagiarists, and one of the most original geniuses that England has pro- 
duced." Memoirs of his life and family, written by himself and published by his 
daughter, Mrs. Medalle, appeared in 1775. The " Quarterly Review," vol. xciv., 
contains an article on Sterne, and a new life by Percy Fitzgerald, reprinted from the 
" Dublin University Magazine," was published in 1863.] 

And as for the Bastile_, — the terror is in the word. — Make the most of 
it you can^ said I to myself^ the Bastile is but another word for a 
tower 3 — and a tower is but another word for a house you can't get 
out of. — Mercy on the gouty ! for tney are in it twice a year. But 
with nine Hvres a day, and pen and ink and paper and patience, albeit 
a man can't get out, he may do very well within, — at least for a month 
or six weeks 3 at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his inno- 
cence appears, and he comes out a better and wiser man than he 
went in. 

I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as I 
settled this account 3 and remember I walk'd down stairs in no small 
triumph at the conceit of my reasoning. — Beshrew the somlre pencil, 
said I, vauntingly, — for I envy not its power, which paints the evils of 
life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at 
the objects she has magnified herself, and blackened : reduce them to 
their proper size, she overlooks them. — 'Tis true, said I, correcting the 
proposition, — the Bastile is not an evil to be despised. — But strip it of 
its towers, — fill up the fosse, — unbarricade the doors, — call it simply a 
confinement, and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a distemper, — and not of 
a man, which holds you in in it, — the evil vanishes, and you bear the 
other half without complaint. 

I was interrupted in the hey-day of this soliloquy, with a voice which 
I took to be that of a child, which complained "it could not get out." 
I look'd up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor 
child, I went out without farther attention. 

In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words re- 
peated twice over 3 and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a 
little cage 3 — "I can't get out, — I can't get out," said the starhng. 

I stood looking at the bird : and to every person who came through 
the passage, it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached 
it, with the same lamentation of its captivity. — " I can't get out,' said 
the starling. — God help thee ! — said I, — but I'll let thee out, cost what 
it will 3 so I turned about the cage to get tlie door : it was twisted and 
double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without 
puUing the cage to pieces. — I took both hands to it. 

The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, 
and, thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, 
as if impatient. — I fear, poor creature, said I, I cannot set thee at 



ii8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Sterne. 

liberty. — "No," said the starlings "I can't get out, — I can't get out," 
said the starUng. 

I vow I never had my affections more tenderly awakened ; nor do T 
remember an incident in my life where the dissipated spirits, to which 
my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly call'd home. 
Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they 
chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reason- 
ings upon the Bastile > and I heavily walk'd up stairs, unsaying every 
word I had said in going down them. 

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still. Slavery ! said I, — still thou art a 
bitter draught ! and though thousands in all ages have been made to 
drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. — 'Tis thou, 
thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom 
all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will 
be so, till Nature herself shall change. — No tint of words can spot thy 
snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron ; — with thee 
to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his 
monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven ! cried 
I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent, grant me but 
health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as 
my companion, — and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto 
thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them ! 

THE CAPTIVE. PARIS. 

The bird in his cage pursued me into my room. I sat down close 
to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to 
myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, 
and so I gave full scope to my imagination. 

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures, born 
to no inheritance but slavery : but finding, however affecting the pic- 
ture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of 
sad groups in it did but distract me, 

— I took a single captive 5 and having first shut him up in his dun- 
geon, I then looked tlirough the twilight of his grated door to take his 
picture. 

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and con- 
tinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which 
arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and 
feverish : in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his 
olood 3 — he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time 3 — nor had the 
voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice ! — His chil- 
dren — 



Clarendon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 119 

But here my heart began to bleed ; — and I was forced to go on \Yith 
another part of the portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw^ in the furthest 
corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed : a 
httle calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over 
with the dismal days and nights he had passed there : — he had one of 
these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching 
another day of miser}^ to add to the heap. As I darkened the little 
light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, — then cast 
it down — shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I 
heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little 
stick upon tlie bundle. — He gave a deep sigh. — I saw the iron enter 
into his soul I — I burst into tears. — I could not sustain tlie picture of 
confinement which my fancy had drawn. — A Sentimental Journey. 



45.— THE CHARACTER OF LUCIUS CARY FALKLAND. 

[Lord Clarexdox, 1608 — 1674. 
[Edward Hyde, third son of Henn- Hyde, was born at Dinton, near Salisbur}-, Feb. 
18, 1608, and educated by the clerg)-man of the parish and at Magdalen College, 
Oxford. He studied the law at the ^Middle Temple, and was returned as member 
for Wootton Basset in 1640, In the Long Parliament he sat for Saltash, and soon 
became a great favourite with Charles I. He ^vas made Chancellor of the 
Exchequer in 1643, when he received the honour of knighthood. In 1646 he 
escaped to Jersey, and ha^nng been the constant ad%"iser of Charles II., when in 
exile, he returned ^Arith him in 1660, and -n-us made Lord-Chancellor, with the title 
of Baron Hyde. At the coronation in April, 1661, the earldom of Clarendon was 
conferred upon him, with a gift of 20,000/. Lord Clarendon fell a victim to court 
intrigues, and was compelled to surrender the Great Seal Aug. 30, 1667. Articles 
of impeachment were dra\^-n up against him, and he quitted the kingdom Nov. 29, 
1667. A bill for punishing him passed the Upper House Dec. 12, and the Lower 
House Dec. 18. After going to several places. Lord Clarendon settled at Rouen, 
where he died Dec. 9, 1674. His body -w-as brought to England, and interred in 
Westminster Abbey. The first edition of his great work, " The History of the 
Rebellion," appeared at Oxford in 1702, 1703, and 1704. His life, written by 
himself, ^^'as published at Oxford in 1759. Both works have gone through numerous 
editions. "The Life and Administration of Edward, first Earl of Clarendon, 
^vith original Correspondence," inc., by T. H. Lister, published in 1838, contains 
a full account of this extraordinary man. A writer in the Edinburgh Review 
speaks of Clarendon's " History" as " one of the noblest historical works of the 
English language ;" and Southey remarks : " For an Englishman, there is no single 
historical work with which it can be so necessary for him to be well and thoroughly 
acquainted as with Lord Clarendon."] 

If the celebrating the memor}' of eminent and extraordinary^ persons, 
and transmitting their great virtues, for the imitation of posterity, be 
one of the principal ends and duties of history, it will not be tliought 



120 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Clarendon. 

impertinent, in this place, to remember a loss which no time will 
suffer to be forgotten, and no success or good fortune could repair. In 
this unhappy battle (Newbury, Sept. 10, 1643), was slain the Lord 
Viscount Falkland •* a person of such prodigious parts of learning and 
knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, 
of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and 
of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no 
other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war, than that single 
loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all posterity. 

Turpe mori, post te, solo non posse dolore. 

Before this parliament, his condition of life was so happy, that it 
was hardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty 
years of age, be was master of a noble fortune, which descended to 
him by the gift of a grandfather, without passing through his father or 
mother, who were then both alive, and not well enough contented to 
find themselves passed by in the descent. His education for some 
years had been in Ireland, where his father was lord-deputy j so that 
when he returned to England, to the possession of his fortune, he was 
unentangled with any acquaintance or friends, which usually grow up 
by the custom of conversation 3 and therefore was to make a pure 
election of his company, which he chose by other rules than were 
prescribed to the young nobility of that time. Ard it cannot be 
denied, though he admitted some few to his friendship for the agreea- 
bleness of their natures, and their undoubted affection to him, that his 
familiarity and friendship, for the most part, was with men of the 
most eminent and sublime parts, and of untouched reputation in point 
of integrity j and such men had a title to his bosom. 

He was a great cherisher of wit and fancy, and good parts in any 
man 3 and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a 
most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his for- 
tune j of which, in those administrations, he was such a dispenser as 
if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been 
the least of vice in his expense, he might have been thought too 
prodigal. He was constant and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved 
to do, and not to be wearied by any pains that were necessary to that 
end. And therefore having once resolved not to see London, which 



* Lucius Gary Falkland, son of Henry Gary, first Viscount Falkland, was born in 
1610, and educated at Trinity Gollege, Dublin, and St. John's Gollege, Gambridge. 
The peerage — a Scotch one — did not confer the right of sitting in the House of Lords. 
Viscount Falkland was returned member for Newport in the Isle of Wight, in 1640. 
He fell in the battle of Newbury, Sep. 20, 1643. 



Clarendon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 121 

he loved above all places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek 

tongue, he went to his own house in the country, and pursued it with 

that indefatigable industry, that it will not be believed in how short a 

time he was master of it, and accurately read all the Greek historians. 

In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of 

Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most polite 

and accurate men of that university, who found such an immenseness 

of wit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, 

bound in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that 

he was not ignorant in anything, yet such an excessive humility, as if 

he had known nothing, that they frequently resorted, and dwelt with 

him, as in a college situated in a purer air ; so that his house was a 

university in a less volume ; whither they came not so much for 

repose as study, and to examine and refine those grosser propositions, 

which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation. 
■X- -x- * ■X- * 

He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend 
vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, 
and to be reputed a lover of all good men ; and that made him too 
much a contemner of those arts which must be indulged in the trans- 
actions of human affairs. 

* -x- * -x- -x- 

He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper, and so far 
from fear, that he seemed not without some appetite of danger ; and 
therefore, upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person 
in those troops, which he thought, by the forwardness of the com- 
manders, to be most like to be farthest engaged ; and in all such 
encounters he had about him an extraordinary cheerfulness, without at 
all affecting the execution that usually attended them, in which he 
took no delight, but took pains to prevent it, where it was not, by 
resistance made necessary 5 insomuch that at Edge-hill, (Oct. 23, 1642,) 
when the enemy was routed, he was like to have incurred great peril, 
by interposing to save those who had thrown away their arms, and 
against whom, it may be, others were more fierce for their having 
thrown them away : so that a man might think, he came into the 
field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and charity to 
prevent the shedding of blood. Yet in his natural inclination he 
acknowledged he was addicted to the profession of a soldier ; and 
shortly after he came to his fortune, before he was of age, he went 
into the Low Countries, with a resolution of procuring command, and 
to give himself up to it, from which he was diverted by the complete 
inactivity of that summer : so he returned into England, and shortly 
after entered upon that vehement course of study we mentioned 



122 THE EPERY-DAY BOOK [Clarendon. 

before, till the first alarm from the north ; then again he made ready 
for tlie field, and though he received some repulse in the command of 
a troop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a volunteer 
witli the Earl of Essex. 

From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness 
and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of 
spirit stole upon him, which he had never been used to ; yet being one 
of those who believed that one battle would end all differences, and 
that there would be so great a victory on one side, that the other 
would be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor, 
(which supposition and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of 
most men, and prevented the looking after many advantages, that 
might then have been laid hold of,) he resisted those indispositions, 
et in luctu, helium inter remedia erat. But after the king's return from 
Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit 
any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched 
him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness ; and he, who had 
been so exactly easy and affable to all men, that his face and countenance 
was always present, and vacant to his company, and held any cloudi- 
ness, and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility, 
became on a sudden, less communicable ; and thence, very sad, pale, 
and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, 
which he had minded before always with more neatness, and industry, 
and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only 
incurious, but too negligent ; and in his reception of suitors, and the 
necessary or casual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and 
severe, that there wanted not some men, (strangers to his nature and 
disposition,) who believed him proud and imperious, from which no 

mortal man was ever more free. 

•X- -x- * * * 

When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more 
erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which 
he thought might promote it j and sitting among his friends, often, 
after a deep silence and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad 
accent, ingeminate the word peace, peace; and would passionately 
profess, " that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities 
and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from 
him, and would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or 
pretend to think, " that he was so much enamoured on peace, that he 
would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price j" 
which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man, that was him- 
self the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might 
reflect upon conscience or honour, could have wished the king to have 



Tennent.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 123 

committed a trespass against either. And yet this senseless scandal 
made some impression upon him, or at least he used it for an excuse 
of the daringness of his spirit ; for at the leaguer before Gloucester, 
when his friend passionately reprehended him for exposing his person 
unnecessarily to danger, (for he delighted to visit the trenches, and 
nearest approaches, and to discover what the enemy did,) as being so 
much beside the duty of his place, that it might be understood rather 
to be against it, he would say merrily, '' that his office could not take 
away the privilege of his age ; and that a secretary in war might be 
present at the greatest secret of danger ;" but withal alleged seriously, 
" that it concerned him to be more active in enterprises of hazard, 
than other men, that all might see, that his impatiency for peace pro- 
ceeded not from pusillanimity, or fear to adventure his own person." 

In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was 
very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord 
Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined 
the hedges on both sides with musketeers ; from whence he was 
shot with a musket in the lower part of the belly^ and in the in- 
stant falling from his horse, his body was not found till the next 
morning ; till when, there was some hope he might have been a 
prisoner 5 though his nearest friends, who knew his temper, received 
small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable 
young man, in the four and thirtieth year of his age, having so 
much dispatched the true business of life, that the eldest rarely 
attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not 
into the world with more innocency : whosoever leads such a life, 
needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from, 
him. — The History of the Relellion, Book vii. 



46.— THE PAMBOO-KALOO, OR SNAKE-STONE. 

[J. E. Tennent, 1804. 

[James Emerson, son of William Emerson, a Belfast merchant, was born April 7, 
1804, and assumed the name of his wife in 1832. Educated at Trinity College, 
Dublin, he was called to the English bar in 1831. He was returned for Belfast in 
Dec. 1832, and represented that city until July, 1845, when he was appointed Civil 
Secretary to the Colonial Government of Ceylon, ha\-ing been secretary to the 
India Board from Sept. 1841, and received the honour of knighthood. Having left 
Ceylon Dec. 1 1, 1850, he was elected member for Lisburn in Dec. 185 1; in Feb. 
1852, he was appointed Secretary to the Poor Law Board, and in Nov. 1852, one of 
the joint secretaries to the Board of Trade. Sir J. E. Tennent is the author of several 
works, his first publication being "Travels in Greece," which appeared in 1825; 
"Letters from the ^-Egean" appeared in 1829; "A History of Modern Greece" in 



124 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tennent. 

1830; his "Christianity in Ceylon" in 1850; and his principal work on Ceylon was 
published in 1859. ^^ '^^^ created a Knight of the Greek Order of the Saviour 
in 1842.] 

The use of the Pamboo-Kaloo, or snake-stone, as a remedy in cases 
of wounds by venomous serpents, has probably been communicated to 
the Cingalese by the itinerant snake-charmers, who resort to the island 
from the coast of Coromandel ; and more than one well-authenticated 
instance of its successful application has been told to me by persons 
who had been eye-witnesses to what they described. On one occasion, 
in March, 1854, a friend of mine was riding, with some of the civil 
officers of the Government, along a jungle path in the vicinity of 
Bintenne, when they saw one of two Tamils,* who were approaching 
them, suddenly dart into the forest and return, holding in both hands a 
cobra de capello, which he had seized by the head and tail. He called 
to his companion for assistance to place it in their covered basket, but 
in doing this he handled it so inexpertly, that it seized him by the 
finger, and retained its hold for a few seconds, as if unable to retract 
its fangs. The blood flowed, and intense pain appeared to follow 
almost immediately J but, with all expedition, the friend of the sufferer 
undid his waist-cloth, and took from it two snake-stones, each of the 
size of a small almond, intensely black and highly polished, though of 
an extremely light substance. These he applied — one to each wound 
inflicted by the teeth of the serpent — to which the stones attached 
themselves closely, the blood that oozed from the bites being rapidly 
imbibed by the porous texture of the article applied. The stones 
adhered tenaciously for three or four minutes, the wounded man's 
companion in the meanwhile rubbing his arm downwards from the 
shoulder towards the fingers. At length the snake-stones dropped off 
of their own accord ; the suffering appeared to have subsided ; he 
twisted his fingers till the joints cracked, and went on his way without 
concern. Whilst this had been going on, another Indian of the party 
who had come up, took from his bag a small piece of white wood, 
which resembled a root, and passed it gently near the head of the 
cobra, which the latter immediately inclined close to the ground ; he 
then lifted the snake without hesitation, and coiled it into a circle at 
the bottom of his basket. The root by which he professed to be 
enabled to perform this operation with safety he called the Naya- 



* Tamils, or Tamulians, the name given to the inhabitants of the Eastern coast of 
Ceylon, from Battakolo northward to Jaffua, and thence along the Western coast to 
Putlam. They are supposed to have come over from the opposite shores of India, and 
are more active and industrious than the Cingalese, or natives of the interior of the 
island. 



Tennent.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 125 

thalee Kalinga (the root of the snake-plant), protected by which he 
professed his ability to approacli any reptile with impunity. 

In another instance, in 1853, Mr. Lavalliere, the District Judge of 
Kandy, informed me that he saw a snake-charmer in the jungle, close by 
the town, search for a cohra de capello, and, after disturbing it in its re- 
treat, the man tried to secure it, but in the attempt he was bitten in the 
thigh till the blood trickled from the wound. He instantly applied 
the Pamhoo Kaloo, which adhered closely for about ten minutes, during 
which time he passed the root which he held in his hand backwards 
and forwards above the stone, till the latter dropped to the ground. 
He assured Mr. Lavalliere that ah danger was then past. That gentle- 
man obtained from him the snake-stone he had relied on^ and saw him 
repeatedly afterwards in perfect health. 

The substances which were used on both the occasions are now in my 
possession. The roots employed by the several parties are not identical. 
One appears to be the bit of the stem of an Aristolochia ; the other is 
so dried as to render it difficult to identify it, but it resembles the quad- 
rangular stem of a jungle vine. Some species of Aristolochia, such as 
the A. serpent aria of North America, are supposed to act as a specific 
in the cure of snake-bites ; and the A. indica is the plant to which the 
ichneumon is popularly believed to resort as an antidote when bitten j 
but it is probable that the use of any particular plant by the snake- 
charmers is a pretence, or rather a delusion, the reptile being over- 
powered by the resolute action of the operator, and not by the 
influence of any secondary appliance, the confidence inspired by the 
supposed talisman enabling the possessor to address himself fearlessly 
to his task, and thus to effect by determination and will what is popu- 
larly believed to be the result of charms and stupefaction. Still it is 
curious that, amongst the natives of Northern Africa, who lay hold of 
the Cerastes without fear or hesitation, their impunity is ascribed to the 
use of a plant with which they anoint tliemselves before touching the 
reptile.^ And Bruce says of the people of Sennaar that they acquire 
exemption from the fatal consequences of the bite by chewing a par- 
ticular root, and washing themselves with an infusion of certain plants. 
He adds that a portion of this root was given him, with a view to test 
its efficacy in his own person, but that he had not sufficient resolution 
to undergo the experiment. As to the snake-stone itself, I submitted 
one, the application of which I have been describing, to Mr. Faraday, 



* See "Hasselquist's (F.)Voyages and Travels in the Levant, 1749 — 52," published in 
1766. This Swedish naturalist and traveller, the pupil of Linnaeus, was born Jan. 3 
(O.S.), 1722, and died Feb. 9, 1752. 



126 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ansted. 

and he has communicated to me, as the result of his analysis, his belief 
that it is " a piece of charred bone which has been filled with blood 
perhaps several times, and then carefully charred again. Evidence of 
this is afforded, as well by the apertures of cells or tubes on its surface 
as by the fact that it yields and breaks under pressure, and exhibits an 
organic structure within. When heated slightly, water rises from it, 
and also a little ammonia ; and if heated still more highly in the air, 
carbon burns away, and a bulky white ash is left, retaining the shape 
and size of the stone." This ash, as is evident from inspection, can- 
not have belonged to any vegetable substance, for it is almost entirely 
composed of phosphate of lime. Mr. Faraday adds that '' if the piece 
of matter has ever been employed as a spongy absorbent, it seems 
hardly fit for that purpose in its present state 3 but who can say to 
what treatmeixt it has been subjected since it was fit for use, or to what 
treatment the natives may submit it when expecting to have occasion 
to use it?" 

The probability is that the animal charcoal, when instantaneously 
applied, may be sufficiently porous and absorbent to extract the venom 
from the recent wound, together with a portion of the blood, before it 
has had time to be carried into the system ; and that the blood which 
Mr. Faraday detected in the specimen submitted to him was that of 
the Indian on whose person the effect was exhibited on the occasion to 
which my informant was an eye-witness. — Ceylon, vol. 1., Part ii., 
ch. 3. 



47.— THE AMPHITHEATRE AT NISMES. 

[D. T. Ansted, 1814. 

[David Thomas Ansted, born in London in 1814, was educated at a private school 
and at Jesus College, Cambridge. He was appointed Professor of Geology at King's 
College in 1840; Lecturer on Geology at Addiscombe in 1845; and Professor of 
Geology at the College of Civil Engineers, Putney, in 1845. His first work, 
" Geology, Introductory, Descriptive, and Practical," appeared in 1844. This has 
been followed by a variety of interesting publications ; amongst which " Scenery, 
Science, and Art," which appeared in 1854, may be mentioned. Ansted has also 
contributed largely to several scientific periodicals.] 

The amphitheatre of Nismes* is really in itself a noble building, and 
a highly picturesque ruin. Its state of preservation, in spite of the 
numerous accidents to which it has been exposed in the course of 
seventeen or eighteen centuries, and the more injurious barbarisms of 



* Erected by Antoninus Pius, Emperor of Rome, a.d. 138 — 161. 



Ansted.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 127 

those who have used this, as well as others of the noblest works of 
ancient art as mere quarries, conveniently supplying materials for the 
construction of houses, palaces, or churches, is still extremely good. 
Its external preservation is even more perfect than that of the great 
Coliseum of Rome.^ Whole ranges of seats yet remain, rising in 
regular tiers one above another. Each range is constructed of a num- 
ber of enormous square blocks of stone, some of which retain marks 
and notches, indicating the amount of space allotted to each spectator. 
We may still see the noble galleries, varied in their style of architec- 
ture, but ail good, and many of them uninjured by time or violence — 
the magnificent stairs and passages admitting of the free access and 
egress of the vast multitude, and the complete division of different 
classes distinctly and unchangeably preserved. So perfect are many 
parts of this building, that one may sit down, and without much in- 
dulgence of the fancy, carry back one's thoughts to the time when the 
charm of novelty was added to those intrinsic beauties we can now 
recognise, and when the old Roman spectator, occupying the same 
seat, was waiting with anxiety and intense interest to see the cruel and 
ferocious sports then thought manly, and considered absolutely essential 
to keep up the national character. Seated near the centre of the 
lower range of seats, not far from the imperial throne — part of the 
iron-work enclosing which is still to be seen — some proud senator looks 
around him on all that is noble and distinguished in the ancient city of 
Nemausus, and watches the representative of majesty, or majesty itself, 
clothed in purple, mounting to the imperial throne. Above him, on 
the next tier are the knights j above them the Roman citizens — 
Roman, at least, by law, though few, if any, had ever seen Rome — 
and above them again the bondsmen and slaves, who, in those days, 
were not only allowed to partake in the amusements of their masters, 
but had their allotted places with the rest. More than 20,000 human 
beings are seated quietly around awaiting a signal. Soon a small door 
opens — the place of that door is now visible — and there rush out wild 
beasts to combat either with each other, or with those gladiators 
whose gloomy chambers are also preserved, and who, one must imagine, 
were scarcely more civilized or domesticated than their victims in the 
arena. These fights would, however, soon be succeeded by others 
more terrible. Men against men — the condemned criminal and the 
innocent Christian, led out of other dungeons, are cruelly tortured and 
put to death for the amusement of their fellow-men. Such are the 



* Commenced by the Emperor Vespasian a.d. 75, and completed by the Emperor 

Titus A.D. 80. 



128 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Burns. 

scenes that suggest themselves as we occupy the seats, traverse the 
galleries, or visit the small chambers, that remain so perfectly pre- 
served in this noble structure. We almost expect to see the marks of 
blood still staining the ground. We listen to hear the shouts of the 
multitude, and when we recall our wandering thoughts, and watch the 
existing population of the vicinity, one cannot but feel that if these 
things have passed away, we have lost also the indomitable courage and 
constantly advancing progress which once belonged to the inhabitants 
of Southern Europe, but which has now changed into a tame and de- 
basing superstition, involving a total want even of the power of union, 
and the most degrading subjection to tyranny. The Roman spirit of 
proud independence has either passed away or has become mingled 
with many other less valuable and less hopeful ingredients, but the 
tendency to cruel and bloody amusements is apparently still in 
existence, and may at any time reappear when the passions are excited 
and circumstances are favourable for its development. These reflec- 
tions can hardly appear out of place, as they suggest themselves but 
too readily to any one acquainted with the former history and present 
condition of the French, Spanish, and Italian people, especially as 
illustrated in Provence within the last half century. — Scenery, Science, 
and Art : being Extracts from the Note Book of a Geologist and Mining 
Engineer. France. Ch. ii. 



48.— MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

[R. Burns, 1759 — 1796. 

[Robert Burns was born in the country, near Ayr, Jan 25, 1759. His parents being 
poor he received but little education. His first attempt at rhyme was made when 
he was in his sixteenth year. An edition of his poems, published at Kilmarnock in 
the autumn of 1786, met with such a reception, that the author was induced to re- 
pair to Edinburgh, instead of emigrating, as he at that time purposed. The poet 
returned to Ayrshire in the spring of 1788, and settled at Ellisland, in Dumfriesshire, 
in June of the same year. He obtained an a])pointment in the excise soon after, and 
removed to Dumfries in 1791, where he died July 21, 1796. The first collected edi- 
tion of his poems and letters, with memoirs by James Currie, was published foi 
the benefit of the poet's widow and children, at Liverpool, in 1800. A life, by 
J. G. Lockhart, appeared in 1828, another, prefixed to an edition of his works, 
was published in 1834, another, in the Aldine edition of his poems, by Sir H. 
Nicolas, appeared in 1839, ^^^ another, with works, by R. Chambers, in 185 1-2.] 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One evening, as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 



Burns.j OF MODERN LITERATURE. 129 

I spied a man whose aged step 

Seemed weary, worn with care 5 
His face was furrowed o'er with years. 

And hoary was his hair. * 

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?" 

Began the reverend sage : 
" Does thirst of wealth tiiy step constrain, 

^' Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
" Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

*^Too soon thou hast began 
"To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

"The miseries of man. 

" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

*■ Out-spreading far and wide, 
" Where hundreds labour to support 

" A haughty lordling's pride : 
" I've seen yon weary winter sun 

" Twice forty times return, 
"And every time has added proofs 

" That man was made to mourn. 

" Oh man ! while in thy early years, 

" How prodigal of time : 
" Misspending all thy precious hours, 

" Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
" Alternate follies take the sway ; 

" Licentious passions burn ; 
" Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

"That man was made to mourn. 

" Look not alone on youthful prime, 

"On manhood's active might; 
" Man then is useful to his kind, 

" Supported in his right : 
" But see him on the edge of life, 

" With cares and sorrows worn -, 
" Then age and want — O ill-matched pair ! — 

*' Show man was made to mourn. 

" A few seem favourites of fate, 

"In pleasure's lap carest; 
"Yet think not all the rich and great 

" Are likewise truly blest. 



J30 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Burns. 

" But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 

*^ All wretched and forlorn ! 
" Through weary life this lesson learn — 

" That man was made to mourn. 

" Many and sharp the numerous ills 

" Inwoven with our frame ! 
" More pointed still we make ourselves 

" Regret, remorse, and shame ; 
" And man, whose heaven-erected face 

" The smiles of love adorn, 
"Man's inhumanity to man 

" Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

" See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight, 

" So abject, mean, and vile, 
*' Who begs a brother of the earth 

" To give him leave to toil ; 
" And see his lordly fellow-worm 

" The poor petition spurn, 
** Unmindful though a weeping wife 

" And helpless offspring mourn. 

" If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — 

" By nature's law designed — 
" Why was an independent wish 

" E'er planted in my mind ? 
" If not, why am I subject to 

" His cruelty or scorn ? 
" Or why has man the will and power 

" To make his fellow mourn ? 

" Yet let not this too much, my son, 

*' Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
" This partial view of human-kind 

" Is surely not the last ? 
" The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

*' Had never, sure, been born, 
" Had there not been some recompense 

" To comfort those that mourn ! 

" O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend — 

" The kindest and the best ! 
** Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 

" Are laid with thee at rest ! 



Baxter.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 131 

*' The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

" From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
" But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

" That weary-laden mourn !" 



49.— A HEAVENLY MIND. 

[Rev. R. Baxter,~i6i5 — 1691. 

[Richard Baxter, born at Rowdon in Shropshire, Nov. 12, 1615, received but 
little education. He applied his mind to study, was ordained, and soon after acted as 
curate at Bridgenorth. He removed to Kidderminster in 1640, and during part of 
the Civil War filled the office of chaplain to one of the Parliamentary regiments. 
His influence was always exerted to restrain excess. Having refused a bishopric, he 
left the Church on the passing of the Act of Uniformity in 1662, and retired to 
Acton, where he devoted his time to literary labours. According to the list given 
in Orme's memoir, prefixed to an edition of his works published in 1827 — 30, he 
wrote no less than 168 distinct works. The best known are: "The Saint's 
Everlastmg Rest," published in 1653; "A Call to the Unconverted," which ap- 
peared in 1669; and " Methodus Theologiae Christianae" in 1681. In 1672 Baxter 
returned to London, and resumed his preaching. He was, however, subjected to 
legal proceedings in 1682 and 1684, and on the latter occasion suffered an 
imprisonment which lasted eighteen months. He died Dec. 8, 1691. He left an 
autobiography, which was published in 1696 by Matthew Sylvester, under the title 
of " Reliquiffi Baxterianae," called by Coleridge " an inestimable work." Dr. G. 
Callaway published an abridgment in 17 13. His practical works were published 
in 1707, and numerous editions have appeared. Orme's edition of his works 
(1827 — 30) is in 23 vols. Dr. Barrow says: "Baxter's practical writings were 
never mended ; his controversial, seldom refuted."] 

A HEART in heaven is the highest excellency of your spirits here, and 
the noblest part of your Christian disposition j as there is not only a 
difference between men and beasts, but also among men between the 
noble and the base ; so there is not only a common excellency, 
whereby a Christian differs from the world, but also a peculiar noble- 
ness of spirit, whereby the more excellent differ from the rest 3 and 
this lies especially in a higher and more heavenly frame of spirit. 
Only man, of all inferior creatures, is made with a face directed 
heavenward ; but other creatures have their faces to the earth. As 
the noblest of creatures, so the noblest of Christians are they that are 
set most direct for heaven.* As Saul is called a choice and goodly man, 
higher by the head than all the company 3 so is he the most choice 
and goodly Christian whose head and heart is thus the highest.f 
Men of noble birth and spirits do mind high and great affairs, 
and not the smaller things of low poverty. Their discourse is 
of councils and matters of state,, of the government, of the 



Bishop Hall. Soliloquy xxxii. f i Sam. iv. 2, and x. 23, 24. 

K 2 



132 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Baxter. 

commonwealth, and public things : and not of the country- 
man's petty employments. Oh ! to hear such a heavenly saint, 
who hath fetched a journey into heaven by faith, and hath been 
raised up to God in his contemplations, and is newly come down from 
the views of Christ, what discoveries will he make of those superior 
regions ! What ravishing expressions drop from his lips ! How high 
and sacred is his discourse ! Enough to make the ignorant world asto- 
nished, and perhaps say, ^''Much study hath made them mad;"'* and 
enough to convince an understanding hearer that they have seen the 
Lord : and to make one say, " No man could speak such words as these 
except he had been with God," This, this is the noble Christian -, as 
Bucholcer'sf hearers concluded, when he had preached his last sermon, 
being carried between two into the church, because of his weakness, 
and there most admirably discoursed of the blessedness of souls de- 
parted this life, " that Bucholcer did ever excel other preachers, but 
that day he excelled himself:" so may I conclude of the heavenly 
Christian, he ever excelleth the rest of men, but when he is nearest heaven 
he excelleth himself. As those are the most famous mountains that 
are the highest ; and those the fairest trees that are the tallest ; and 
those the most glorious pyramids and buildings whose tops do reach 
nearest to heaven ; so is he the choicest Christian, whose heart is most 
frequently and most delightfully there. If a man have lived near the 
king, or have travelled to see the Sultan of Persia, or the great Turk, 
he will make this a matter of boasting, and thinks himself one step 
higher than his private neighbours, that live at home. What shall we 
then judge of him that daily travels as far as heaven, and there hath 
seen the King of Kings ? That hath frequent admittance unto the 
Divine presence, and feasted his soul upon the tree of life? For my 
part, I value this man before the ablest, the richest, the most learned in 
the world, 

A heavenly mind is a joyful mind ; this is the nearest and the truest 
way to live a life of comfort.]: And without this you must needs be 
uncomfortable. Can a man be at the fire and not be warm ; or in the 
sunshine and not have light ? Can your heart be in heaven and not 
have comfort ? The countries of Norway, Iceland, and all the north- 
ward, are cold and frozen because they are farther from the power of 
the sun; but in Egypt, Arabia, and the southern parts it is far other- 
wise, where they live more near its powerful rays. What could make 
such frozen, uncomfortable Christians, but living so far as they do from 



* Acts xxvi. 24. 
t Abraham, or Bucholtzer, a German divine, born 1529, died Ju le 14, 1584. 
X Bishop Hall, Soliloquy xiii. 



Baxter.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 133 

heaven? And what makes some few others so warm in comforts, but 
their Hving higher than others do, and their frequent access so near to 
God ? Wlien the sun in the spring draws near our part of the earth, 
how do all things congratulate its approach ! The earth looks green, 
and casteth otf her mourning habit ; the trees shoot forth ; the plants 
revive 3 the pretty birds, how sweetly do they sing ! The face of all 
things smiles upon us, and all the creatures below rejoice. Beloved 
friends, if we would but try this life with God, and would but keep 
these hearts above, what a spring of joy would be within us) and all 
our graces be fresh and green ! How would the face of our souls be 
changed, and all that is witliin us rejoice ! How should we forget our 
winter sorrows ; and withdraw our souls from our sad retirements ! How 
early should we rise (as those birds in the spring) to sing the praise of 
our great Creator! OXJhristian, get above : believe it, that region is 
warmer than this below. Those that have been there, have found it 
so, and those that have come thence have told us so : and I doubt not 
but tliat thou hast sometime tried it thyself. I dare appeal to thy own 
experience, or to the experience of any soul that knows what the true joys 
of a Christian are : when is it that you have largest comforts ? Is it 
not after such an exercise as this, when thou hast got up thy heart, and 
conversed with God, and talked with the inhabitants of the higher 
world, and viewed, the mansions of the saints and angels, and tilled 
thy soul witli the fore-thoughts of glory ? If thou know by experience 
what this practice is, I dare say thou knowest what spiritual joy is. 
David professeth that the light of God's countenance would make his 
heart more glad than theirs that have corn, and wine, and oil. " Thou 
shalt fill me full of joy with thy countenance."* If it be the 
countenance of God that fills us with joy, then surely they that draw 
nearest, and most behold it, must needs be fullest of these joys. If 
you never tried this art, nor lived this life of heavenly contempla- 
tion, I never wonder that you walk uncomfortably, that yon are all 
complaining, and live in sorrow, and know not what the joy of the 
saints means. Can you have comforts from God, and never think of 
him ? Can heaven rejoice you, when you do not remember it ? Doth 
anything in the world glad you, when you think not on it ? Must 
not everything first enter your judgment and consideration before it 
can delight your heart and atfection ? If you were possessed of all the 
treasures of the earth ; if you had title to the highest dignities and 
dominions, and never think on it, surely it would nev^er rejoice you.t 
Whom should we blame then, diat we are so void of consolation, but 



* Psalm iv. 6, 7, and Acts ii. 28, referring to Psalm xvi. 
t Burroughs (Sect, xvii.) on Hosea ii. 19. 



134 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Gilpin. 

pur own negligent, unskilful hearts ? God hath provided us a crown 
of glory, and promised to set it shortly on our heads, and we will not 
so much as think of it ; he holdeth it out in the Gospel to us, and 
biddeth us behold and rejoice, and we will not so much as look at it ; 
and yet we complain for want of comfort. What a perverse course is 
this, both against God and our own joys 1 — The Sainfs Everlasting 
Rest, pt. iv., ch. iii., §§ 4 and 5. 



SO.— SUNRISE IN THE FOREST. 

[Rev. W, Gilpin, 1724 — 1804. 

[William Gilpin, born in 1724, after taking orders, conducted a school at Clieam, 
in Surrey. His first publication, a "Life of Bernard Gilpin," was followed by 
several biographical works. This author is most celebrated for his admirable 
criticisms on landscape and forest scenery. The first of this series of works, 
"Observations on the river Wye, and several parts of South Wales, and relative 
chiefly to Picturesque Beauty: made in the summer of the year 1770," was pub- 
lished at London in 1782. A complete series of his picturesque works is published 
in eleven volumes. He is the author of " An Exposition of the New Testament," 
published in 1790, and several sermons and lectures. He was presented by a pupil 
to the living of Boldre, on the borders of the New Forest, where he died April 5, 
1804. A memoir, said to be written by the Rev. Richard Warner, appears in a 
periodical work, entitled " The Omnium Gatherum," published at Bath.] 

The first dawn of day exhibits a beautiful obscurity, when the east 
begins just to brighten with the reflections only of effulgence j a 
pleasing, progressive light, dubious and amusing, is thrown over the 
face of things. A single ray is able to assist the picturesque eye j 
which, by such slender aid creates a thousand imaginary forms, if the 
scene be unknown ; and as the light steals gradually on, is amused by 
correcting its vague ideas by the real objects. What in the confusion 
of twilight perhaps seemed a stretch of rising ground, broken into 
various parts, becomes now vast masses of wood, and an extent of 
forest. 

As the sun begins to appear above the horizon, another change 
takes place. What was before only form, being now enlightened, 
begins to receive effect. This effect depends on two circumstances, 
the catching lights, which touch the summits of every object ; and 
the mistiness in which the rising orb is commonly enveloped. 

The effect is often pleasing, when the sun rises in unsullied bright- 
ness, diffusing its ruddy light over the upper parts of objects, which is 
contrasted by the deeper shadows below : yet the effect is then only 
transcendent when he rises, accompanied by a train of vapours, in a 
misty atmosphere. Among lakes and mountains, this happy accom- 
paniment often forms the most astonishing visions : and yet in the 



Hope.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 135 

forest it is nearly as great. With what delightful effect do we some- 
times see the sun's disc just appear above a woody hillj or in Shake- 
speare's language, 

" Stand tip-toe on the misty mountain top," 
and dart his diverging rays through the rising vapour. The radiance, 
catching the tops of tlie trees, as they hang midway upon the shaggy 
steep j and touching here and there a few other prominent objects, 
imperceptibly mixes its ruddy tint with the surrounding mists, setting 
on lire, as it were, their upper parts 3 while their lower skirts are lost 
in a dark mass of varied confusion ; in which trees, and ground, and 
radiance, and obscurity are all blended together. When the eye is 
fortunate enough to catch the glowing instant (for it is always a 
vanishing scene), it furnishes an idea worth treasuring among the 
choicest appearances of nature. Mistiness alone, we have observed, 
occasions a confusion in objects, which is often picturesque ; but the 
glory of the vision depends on the glowing lights which are mingled 
with it. 

Landscape painters, in general, pay too little attention to the dis- 
criminations of morning and evening. We are often at a loss to 
distinguish in pictures the rising from the setting sun 3 though their 
characters are very different both in the lights and shadows. The 
ruddy lights, indeed, of the evening are more easily distinguished 3 but 
it is not perhaps always sufficiently observed, that the shadows of the 
evening are much less opaque than those of the morning. They may 
be brightened perhaps by the numberless rays floating in the atmo- 
sphere, which are incessantly reverberated in every direction 3 and may 
continue in action after the sun is set. Whereas in the morning, the 
rays of the preceding day having subsided, no object receives any light 
but from the immediate lustre of the sun. Whatever becomes of the 
theory, the fact, I believe, is well ascertained. — Remarks on Forest 
Scenery, B. ii. § 6. 



SI.— ANASTASIUS AND THE WIZARD. 

[Hope, 1770 — 1831. 

[Thomas Hope, descended from a wealthy Amsterdam family, born in 1770, devoted 
himself to the study of architecture, for which purpose he travelled for several years 
in different parts of the world. His first publication on " Household Furniture," 
appeared in 1807, his "Costume of the Ancients" in 1809. His "Anastasius, or 
Memoirs of a Greek, written at the close of the Eighteenth Century," published 
anonymously in 1819, was at first attributed to Lord Byron. His " Essay on the 
Origin and Prospects of Man " appeared in 183 1, and his historical essay on the 
"History of Architecture" in 1837. ^oth of these works were published post- 
humously, as their author died Feb. 3, 183 1.] 



136 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK. [Hope. 

The Sidi Malek's stationary oracle was a soothsayer of established 
repute, residing in one of the remotest suburbs of Digedda, and who 
seldom condescended to go from home, but waited to be worshipped in 
his own cave or temple. For the sake of peace, I promised not to 
neglect the opportunity of being enlightened, and only bargained to 
find my own way to this celebrated personage, the odour of whose 
fame I was told extended all the world over. It might be so ; for it 
affected me almost to suffocation on entering his den ; — a sanctuary 
which, to say the truth, smelt more of things below than of the stars 
above. [ groped on, nevertheless, with the most undaunted bravery, 
till I reached the farthest end of the unsavory abode. 

There the wizard sat in all his state. A stufied crocodile canopied 
his head ; a serpent's skin of large dimensions was spread under his 
feet, and an old clothes-chest afforded support to the parts between. 
Potent charms and powerful spells entirely covered the wall. They 
had their names written over them for the information of the be- 
holder^ and hair of unborn Dives,"^ heart of maiden vipers, liver of 
the bird Roc,t fat of dromedary's hunch, and bladders filled with 
the wind Simoon,:}: were among the least rare and curious. Of 
the wizard's own features, so little was discernible that I almost 
doubted whether he had any. An immense pair of spectacles filled 
up the whole space between his cloak and turban. These spectacles 
veered incessantly, like a weather-cock, from left to right and from 
right to left, between a celestial globe robbed of half its constellations 
by the worms, and a Venice almanack despoiled of half its pages by 
the wear and tear of fingers. Before the astrologer lay expanded his 
table of nativities. 

Opposite the master shone — but only with a reflected light — his 
little apprentice, crouched, like a marmoset, on a low stool. The 
round, sparkling face of this youth — immovedly fixed on the face of 
his principal — seemed to watch all his gestures j and never did he stir 
from his station, except to hand him his compasses, to turn his globe, 
or to pick up his spectacles — which, from want of the proper support 
from underneath, came off every moment. After each of these evo- 
lutions, the little imp immediately ran back to his pedestal, and re- 
sumed his immoveable attitude till the next call for his activity. So 
complete a silence was maintained all the time on both sides, that one 
would have sworn every motion of this pantomime must have been 
preconcerted. 

Fearful of disturbing the influence of some planet, or confusing the 



* Celebrated magicians. f A fabulous bird of prodigious size, 

X The poisonous wind of the desert. 



Hope.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 137 

calculations of some nativity, I myself remained a while silent and 
metionless at the entrance of the sanctuary ; but finding that I might 
stay there till doomsday if I waited for an invitation to advance, I at 
last grew impatient, marched up to the wizard, put my mouth to his 
ear, and roared out as loud as I could, " I suppose I am addressing 
the learned Schaich Aly ?" 

Upon this the astrologer gave a start, like one suddenly moved 
from some profound meditation, turned his head slowly round, as if 
moving by clock-work, and after first leisurely surveying me several 
times from head to foot, and again from foot to head, at last said in a 
snuffling but emphatic tone — drawling every word, in order to make 
what in itself was not short longer still — '^If you mean the cele- 
brated Schaich Abou Salech, Ibn-Mohammed, Ibn-Aly el Dyeddawee 
Schafei* Schaich, of the flowery mosque, and the cream of the 
astrologfers of the asre, who holds familiar converse with the stars, and 
to whom the moon herself imparts all her secrets, I am he !" 

** And if you should happen to want the best-beloved of the pupils 
of this luminary of the world — the young bud of the science of which 
he is the full-blown pride, the nascent dawn of his meridian splen- 
dour," added from his pedestal the v/orshipful apprentice — "I am 
he." 

'''Hail," answered I, "to the full-blown pride of astrology, and 
hail to its nascent bud! May they be pleased to inform me what I 
am, whence I come, whither I am going, and whether or not I may 
hope to recover what [ have lately lost ? ' ' 

''Young man," replied the wizard, "yon lump together a heap of 
questions, each of which singly would take a twelvemonth to answer 
at length. Besides, it is not in my own person that I disclose such 
matters. You cannot be ignorant that the voice of prophecy has 
ceased with the holy one of Mekkah. I am but the humble inter- 
preter of the stars. It is true," added he — lest this exordium should 
deter me from giving him my custom — " that my vast knowledge of 
the celestial oracles which glitter in the firmament enables me to 
understand their language as clearly as my mother tongue ; and that I 
thence know to a tittle all that was, and is, and is to be. I may 
therefore forthw^ith, if you please, ascertain from the chance opening 
of the Holy Book in w^hat way the heavenly bodies choose, on this 
occasion, to be addressed," 

I agreed. The doctor performed his ablutions, and the dawn of his 



* It is customary with men of letters in Arabia to assume a number of surnames 
borrowed from different circumstances. 



J38 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hope. 

meridian splendour shook the dust from off his gown. Thus cleansed 
— at least externally — he mumbled a prayer or two, and then with 
great solemnity opened the Koran. 

"Child!" said he, after having inspected the page displayed before 
him, " the admirable and important chapter on which Providence has 
willed the eye of its servant to fall, treats of the balance Wezn.* 
This proves incontestably -, — but ere I proceed further, what do you 
mean to pay me?" 

"Two piastres," was my answer; thinking this a liberal remune- 
ration. Not so the wizard. The most grievous of insults could not 
have puf him into a greater rage. 

"Two piastres!" exclaimed he 3 "why, in the quietest of times, 
and when a man's fortune might almost be told him blindfold, this 
would scarce have been an aspre each adventure 3 and now that the 
world has all turned topsy turvy, that men do not know whether they 
stand on their heads or their heels ; now that women wage war, kings 
turn philosophers, and high priests stroll about the country ; now that 
the Grand Lama of Tibet takes a turn to Pekin, and the Pope of 
Rome travels post to Vienna — to offer such a fee ! Insolent — absurd 
— preposterous!" 

I let the astrologer's passion cool a little first, and then resumed the 
negotiation. After a good deal of altercation, it ended in Ibn- Moham- 
med, Ibn-Aly el Schafei*, undertaking to reveal my destiny in two days, 
for the important sum of as many sequins. 

At the appointed time I returned, but found not Schaich Aly, as 
before, in solitary meditation. He stood surrounded by a whole circle 
of customers, and was abusing one poor fellow so tremendously as to 
terrify all the rest, and make them tremble lest their own fortunes 
should fare the worse for the incident. "Wretch!" he cried j — "to 
apply to me for charms to rid your house of vermin -, as if I was in 
league with vipers and with scorpions ! Go to the wandering santons 
that ply in the cross ways, and presume not again to appear in the 
presence of one whom the very skies treat with deference." 

The frightened peasant retired, and the remainder of the party 
received the devout and wonderful sentences, which only required 
being kept carefully sealed up, to procure the bearer every species of 
bliss. 

The levee thus despatched, the wizard turned to me. " I have 
completed your business," cried he, handing me a dirty scrawl, "but 
it has been with incredible toil. I cannot conceive what you have 



♦ In which, according to the Koran, are weighed man's good and evil actions. 



Boswell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 139 

done to the stars. At the bare mention of your name they all began 
to laugh. It has cost me a whole night's labour to bring them to 
their senses. Instead of two sequins, I ought to have two dozen." 

**Not one single aspre," replied I, glancing over the paper, and 
then throwing it in the wizard's face. ^^The beginning informs me 
that I shall certainly die young, provided I do not grow old ; and 
cannot fail to marry, unless I die single 3 and as to the end, it has not 
meaning at all." 

*'It has a great deal of meaning," replied the now infuriated star- 
gazer, grinning like an afrite^ '^for it means, evil spirit, — demon, — 
that you certainly will be hanged." 

'""It then also means," replied I, '^that I need not pay a farthing j 
for, if I am not hanged, you have written a parcel of lies undeserving 
of a fee ; and, if I am equally to swing whether I pay or not, I may 
as well save my money, and give you a drubbing to boot." So 
saying, I laid on ; and the young bud of science, who tried to protect 
his master, came in for his share of my bounty. All intercourse with 
the constellations now being broken off, I walked away, alternately 
threatened with the justice of the stars, and with that of the Cadee. 
— Jnastasius, or Memoirs of a Greek, vol. ii. ch. vi. 



52.-— BOSWELL'S INTRODUCTION TO DR. JOHNSON. 

[Boswell, 1740 — 1795. 

[James Boswell, born at Edinburgh, Oct. 29, 1740, was the son of Alexander 
Boswell, who in 1754 was made a Lord of the Session, and assumed the title of 
Lord Auchinleck. Having studied law at the universities of Edinburgh and 
Glasgow, he repaired to London in 1760. He contributed some verses to a 
miscellany that appeared in Edinburgh in 1760, and published a volume of Letters, 
written by him to the Hon. A. Erskine in 1763. Boswell was introduced to Dr. 
Johnson in the shop of Mr. Davies, the bookseller, Russell Street, Covent Garden, 
May 16, 1763. His intimacy with Dr. Johnson was drawn closer by several visits 
to London, where he settled in 1782. Dr. Johnson died Dec. 13, 1784, and in 
1785 Boswell published at Edinburgh his "Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides," on 
which journey he had accompanied Dr. Johnson in 1773 — the year of his admission 
to the Literary Club. In 1790 Boswell contested Ayrshire without success; and 
his " Life of Johnson" appeared towards the end of that year. His death occurred 
in London June 19, 1795. His "Life of Johnson," which has gone through a 
large number of editions, was carefully edited, with notes by J. W. Croker, in 183 1. 
A volume entitled " Letters of James Boswell, addressed to the Rev. W. J. Temple, 
from the original MS.," appeared in Dec. 1856. Macaulay says, "Boswell's 'Life 
of Johnson' is one of the best books in the world. It is assuredly a great, a very 
great work. Homer is not more decidedly the first of heroic poets ; Shakspeare is 
not more decidedly the first of dramatists ; Demosthenes is not more decidedly the 
first of orators, than Boswell is the first of biographers."] 



140 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Boswell. 

At last on Monday, i6th of May, when I was sitting in Mr. Davies's 
back parlour, after having drank tea with him and Mrs. Davies, 
Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop :"^ and Mr. Davies having 
perceived him, through the glass door in the room in which we were 
sitting, advancing towards us, he announced his awful approach to 
me somewhat in the manner of an actor in the part of Horatio, when 
he addresses Hamlet on the appearance of his father's ghost, " Look, 
my lord, it comes !" I found that I had a very perfect idea of John- 
son's figure, from the portrait of him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds 
soon after he had published his Dictionary, in the attitude of sitting in 
his easy-chair in deep meditation ; which was the first picture his 
friend did for him, which Sir Joshua Reynolds kindly presented to me, 
and from which an engraving has been made for this work. Mr. 
Davies mentioned my name, and respectfully introduced me to him. 
I was much agitated 3 and recollecting his prejudice against the 
Scotch, of which I. had heard much, I said to Davies, " Don't tell 
where I come from." "From Scotland!" cried Davies, roguishly. 
"Mr. Johnson," said I, "I do indeed come from Scotland 3 but I 
cannot help it." I am willing to flatter myself that I meant this as 
light pleasantry, to soothe and conciliate him, and not as an humiliat- 
ing abasement at the expense of my country. But however that 
might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky ; for with that quickness 
of wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the expression, 
" Come from Scotland" — which I used in the sense of being of that 
country j and, as if I had said that I had come away from it, or left it, 
retorted, " That, sir, I find, is what a very great many of your 
countrymen cannot help." This stroke stunned me a good deal j and 
when we had sat down, I felt myself not a little embarrassed, and 
apprehensive of what might come next. He then addressed himself 
to Davies : "What do you think of Garrick ? He has refused me an 
order for the play for Miss Williams, because he knows the house will 
be full, and that an order would be worth three shillings." Eagrer 
to take any opening to get into conversation with him, I ventured to 
say, " Oh, sir, I cannot think Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifle 
to you." " Sir!" said he, with a stern look, " I have known David 
Garrick longer than you have donej and I know no right you have to 
talk to me on the subject." Perhaps I deserved this check ; for it was 
rather presumptuous in me, an entire stranger, to express any doubt of 
the justice of his animadversion upon his old acquaintance and pupil. f 



* Murphy, in his " Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson," gives a different 
account of this interview. 

f That this v^as a momentary sally against Garrick there can be no doubt ; for at 



Bi.swell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. Ht 



I now felt myself much mortified, and began to think that the hope 
which I had long indulged, of obtaining his acquaintance, was blasted. 
And, in truth, had not my ardour been uncommonly strong, and my 
resolution uncommonly persevering, so rough a reception might have 
deterred me from making any further attempts. Fortunately, how- 
ever, I remained upon the field not wholly discomfited 3 and was soon 
rewarded by hearing some of his conversation, of which I preserved 
the following short minute, without marking the questions and obser- 
vations by which it was produced : — 

" People," he remarked, *^may be taken in once, who imagine that 
an author is greater in private life than other men. Uncommon 
parts require uncommon opportunities for their exertion." 

" In barbarous society, superiority of parts is of real consequence. 
Great strength, or great wisdom, is of much value to an individual. 
But in more polished times there are people to do everything for 
money 3 and then there are a number of other superiorities — such as 
those of birth and fortune, and rank, that dissipate men's attentions, 
and leave no extraordinary share of respect for personal and intellectual 
superiority. This is wisely ordered by Providence, to preserve some 
equality among mankind." 

" Sir, this book {' The Elements of Criticism'* which he had 
taken up), is a pretty essay, and deserves to be held in some estima- 
tion, though much of it is chimerical." 

Speaking of one,t who, with m^ore than ordinary boldness, attacked 
public measures and the royal family, he said, " I think he is safe 
from the law, but he is an abusive scoundrel -, and instead of applying 
to my Lord Chief Justice to punish him, I would send half-a-dozen 
footmen, and have him well ducked." 

'' The notion of liberty amuses the people of England, and helps to 
keep off the tcedium vitce. When a butcher ^ells you that his heart 
Heeds for his country, he has, in fact, no uneasy feeling." 

" Sheridan will not succeed at Bath with his oratory. Ridicule has 
gone down before him -, and, I doubt Derrick is his enemy.":}: 



Johnson's desire he had, some years before, given a benefit night at this theatre to this 
very person, by which she had got two hundred pounds. Johnson, indeed, upon all 
other occasions, when I was in his company, praised the very liberal charity of Garrick. 
I once mentioned to him, " It is observed, sir, that you attack Garrick yourself, but 
you will suffer nobody else to do it." Johnson (smiling), " Why, sir, that is true." 

BOSWELL. 

* By Henry Home, Lord Kames, published in 1762. — Crozier. 

t Mr. Wilkes, no doubt. — Croker. 
X Mr. Sheridan v^as then reading lectures upon Oratory at Bath, where DfirricV was- 
Master of the Ceremonies, or as the ohrase is. kbv^. — Bos-7ei.l 



142 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lamartine. 

" Derrick may do very well, as long as he can outrun his character j 
but the moment his character gets up with him, it is all over." 

It is, however, but just to record, that some years afterwards, when 
I reminded him of this sarcasm, he said, " Well, but Derrick has now 
got a character that he need not run away from." 

I was highly pleased with the extraordinary vigour of his conversa- 
tion, and regretted that I was drawn away from it by an engagement 
at another place. I had, for a part of the evening been left alone 
with him, and had ventured to make an observation now and then, 
which he received very civilly 3 so that I was satisfied that, though 
there was a roughness in his manner, there was no ill-nature in his 
disposition. Davies followed me to the door, and when I complained 
to him a little of the hard blows which the great man had given me, 
he kindly took upon him to console me by saying, '' Don't be uneasy. 
I can see he likes you very well." — Life of Johnson, anno 1763. 



53.— THE RIVER JORDAN. 

[De Lamartine, 1790 — 1869. 
[Marie Louis Alphonse De Prat, who assumed the name of De Lamartine after his 
maternal uncle, was born at Macon, October 21, 1790, and educated at Milly, and at 
the College of the Peres de la Foi, Belly. He joined the army in 1814, but left it 
the following year and turned journalist. His first work, " Meditations Poe'tiques," 
appeared in 1820, and 45,000 copies are said to have been sold in four years. Having 
obtained a diplomatic appointment, he was made Secretary of Legation at Florence 
in 1824. His " Harmonies Poetiques et Religieuses" appeared in 1829, in which 
year he was elected member of the French Academy. Lamartine, who had married 
Miss Birch, an English lady cf fortune, resigned his diplomatic appointment in 1830, 
and set out on a tour in Greece in May, 1832. During his absence in the East he 
was elected to the Chamber of Deputies, and spoke for the first time January 4, 1834. 
His "Voyage en Orient" was published in 1835, and, with many other works, has 
been translated into English. His " Histoire des Girondins" appeared in 1847. 
During the revolution of February, 1848, Lamartine was made a Member of the Pro- 
visional Government, and acted as Minister for Foreign Affairs. He soon, how- 
ever, became unpopular, and, although nominated for the Presidency, obtained only 
a few votes. Since his retirement from political life Lamartine has produced a succes- 
sion of historical works. He d'ed 1869.] 

The Jordan winds, as it issues from the lake, ghding into the low and 
marshy plain of Esdraelon, about fifty paces from the lake ; it passes 
under the ruined arches of a bridge of Roman architecture, foaming a 
little, and making its first murmur heard. We directed our steps 
towards it by a rapid and rocky descent. We were eager to salute its 
waters, hallowed in the recollections of two religions. In a few 
minutes we were on its banks j we jump from our horses, and bathe 
our heads, feet, and hands in its stream, fresh, tepid, and blue as the 



Lamartine.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 143 

waters of the Rhone where it leaves the Lake of Geneva. The Jordan 
at this point, which must be nearly the middle of its course, would not 
be worthy of the name of a river in a country- of larger extent ^ but it, 
however, far exceeds the Eurotas and Cephisus, and all those rivers 
whose fabulous or historical names are early echoed in our memory, 
and are conceived in a likeness of magnitude, rapidity, and abundance, 
which the view of reality destroys. The Jordan, even here, is more 
than a torrent^ although at the end of a rainless autumn it gently 
ilow^s in a bed about a hundred feet broad, as a stream of water two or 
three feet deep, so clear, limpid, and transparent, that the pebbles in 
its bed can be told 3 and of that ravishing colour which returns the 
full depth of tint of an Asiatic sky — more blue even than the sky, 
like a picture more beautiful than the reality, like a mirror which em- 
bellishes w^hat it reflects. Twenty or thirty paces from its waters, the 
strand, which it leaves at present dry, is scattered with loose stones, 
rushes, and tufts of laurel roses yet in flower. This strand is five or 
six feet below the level of the plain, and marks the dimensions of the 
river in the ordinary season of fullness. These dimensions, in my 
opinion, must be a depth of eight or ten feet, and a breadth of a hun- 
dred or hundred and twenty. It is narrower both above and below 
in the plain, but there it is more confined and deep, the spot at which 
we contemplated it being one of the four fords w^hich the river has in 
its course. I drank, in the hollow of my hand, of the water ot 
Jordan, of the w^ater which so many divine poets had drunk before 
me, of that water which flowed over the innocent head of the volun- 
tary Victim ! I found it perfectly fresh, of an agreeable taste, and of 
great clearness. The custom which we contract in eastern journeys ot 
drinking nothing but water, and of drinking it repeatedly, renders the 
palate an excellent judge of the qualities of a new stream. The water 
of the Jordan failed only in one quality — coolness. It was warm, and 
though my lips and hands were inflamed by a march of eleven hours 
without shade, imder a scorching sun, my lips and forehead experienced 
a sensation of heat on touching the water of this river. 

Like all the travellers who come through so many fatigues, routes, 
and dangers, to visit in its abandonment this once royal stream, I filled 
several bottles with its waters to carry to friends less fortunate than my- 
self, and I crammed the barrels of my pistols with pebbles which I 
gathered on its shores. Might I not thus bear with me the holy and 
prophetic inspiration with which of old it invested the bards of its 
sacred precincts, and especially a small portion of that sanctity, and of 
that purity of spirit and heart, it contracted doubtless when laving the 
purest and holiest of the children of men ! I then mounted on horse- 
back, and went round some of those ruined piles, which bore the 



144 ' THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [De Quincey. 

bridge or aqueduct of which I spoke above. I saw nothing but 
the inferior masonry of all the Roman constructions of that period — • 
neither marble, sculpture, nor inscription ; no arch was yet subsisting, 
but ten pillars were standing, and we distinguished the foundations of 
four or five others, with a space of about ten feet for each arch j which 
agrees pretty well with the breadth of 120 feet, which, at an eye's 
view, I believe the Jordan would have. 

But what I say here of the dimensions of the Jordan is only in- 
tended to satisfy the curiosity of persons who are anxious to have just 
and exact measures of the very creations of their thoughts, and not to 
lend arms to the enemies or champions of the Christian faith — arms 
despicable on both sides. What matters it whether the Jordan be a tor- 
rent or a river ? — whether Judea be a heap of barren rocks or a delicious 
garden ? — whether this mountain be but a hill, and this kingdom be 
but a province ? The men who rage and fight upon such questions 
are as insane as those who think they upset a creed of two thousand 
years when they laboriously strive to give the lie to the bible, and an 
objection to the prophecies ! Would one not believe, on seeing these 
grand combats on a word ill understood, or wrongly interpreted by both 
sides, that religions are geometrical problems, which are proved by 
figures, or destroyed by an argument, and that generations of believers 
or infidels are quite ready to await the end of the discussion, and 
immediately to pass over to the side of the best logician, and of the 
most erudite and ingenious antiquary ? Profitless disputes, which 
neither pervert nor convert ! Religions are not proved, are not 
demonstrated, are not established, are not overthrown, by logic ! They 
are, of all the mysteries of nature and the human mind, the most 
mysterious and the most inexplicable ; they are of instinct, and not ot 
reason ! Like the winds which blow from the east and from the west, 
of which no one knows the cause or the point of departure, they blow 
God alone knows whence, God alone knows wherefore, God alone 
knows for how many ages, and over what countries of the globe ! 
They are, because they are ; they are not taken up or laid down at 
will, on the word of such or such a tongue ; they are parcel of the 
heart, even more than of the understanding of men. — Travels in the 
East, including a Journey in the Holy Land, vol. i. 



54.— THE LARGE DOSE OF OPIUM. 

[De Quincey, 1786 — 1859. 

[Thomas de Quincey, second son of a wealthy merchant, born in Manchester, August 
15, 1786, was educated at the grammar-school at Bath, and at the university ot 
Oxford. In 1808 he joined the well-known circle at the Lakes, where he remained 



De GLuincey.j OF MODERN LITERATURE. 145 

till 1 8 19. After residing in London and different parts of England, he settled at 
Lasswade, near Edinburgh, in 1843, ^'^d died at Edinburgh, December 8, 1859. -^^ 
Oxford De Quincev contracted the habit from which he received the name of " the 
English opium-eater." His " Confessions of an English Opium-Eater," containing 
an account of his early historv-, appeared in the " London Magazine," and was 
re-published in 1822; and "The Logic of Political Economy" was published at 
Edinburgh in 1844- His other writings, which consisted of contributions to various 
periodicals, were first collected, and republished in America. An English edition, 
entitled " Selections, Grave and Gay," with a preface by the author, appeared at Edin- 
burgh, in fourteen volumes, 1853 — 61.] 

One day a Malay knocked at my door. What business a Malay could 
have to transact amongst the recesses of English mountains^ it is not 
my business to conjecture 3 but possibly he was on his road to a 
seaport — ^\"iz., \Yhitehaven, Workington^ &c., about forty miles 
distant. 

The sen-ant who opened the door to him was a young girl, born 
and bred amongst the mountains, who had never seen an Asiatic dress 
of any sort : his turban, therefore, confounded her not a little : and, as 
it turned out that his knowledge of English was exactly commensurate 
with hers of Malay, there seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed 
betsveen all communication of ideas, if either party had happened to 
possess any. In this dilemma the girl, recollecting the reputed learning 
of her master, (and, doubtless, giving me credit for a knowledge of all 
the languages of the earth, besides, perhaps, a few of the lunar ones,) 
came, and gave me to understand that there was a sort of demon below, 
whom she clearly imagined that my art could exorcise from the house. 
The group which presented itself, arranged as it was by accident, 
though not very elaborate, took hold of my fancy and my eye more 
powerfully than any of the statuesque attitudes or groups exhibited in 
the ballets at the opera house, though so ostentatiously complex. In 
a cottage kitchen, but not looking so much like that as a rustic hall of 
entrance, being panelled on the wall with dark wood that from age 
and rubbing resembled oak, stood the Malay, his turban and loose 
trousers of dingy white relieved upon the dark panelling. He had 
placed himself nearer to the girl than she seemed to relish, though her 
native spirit of mountain intrepidity contended with the feeling of 
simple awe, which her countenance expressed as she gazed upon the 
tiger-cat before her. A more striking picture there could not be 
imagined than the beautiful English face of the girl,* and its exquisite 



* Wordsworth, in a small pastoral poem, speaks of her when about six years old :— 

" 'Twas little Barbara LewthxN'aite, 
A child of beauty rare !" 

L 



146 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [De Quincey. 

bloom, together with her erect and independent attitude, contrasted 
with the sallow and bilious skin of the Malay, veneered with mahogany 
tints by climate and marine air, his small, fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, 
slavish gestures and adorations. Half hidden by the ferocious-looking 
Malay, was a little child from a neighbouring cottage, who had crept 
in after him, and was now in the act of reverting its head and gazing 
upwards at the turban and the fiery eyes beneath it, whilst with one 
hand he caught at the dress of the lovely girl for protection. 

My knowledge of the Oriental tongues is not remarkably extensive, 
being, indeed, confined to two words — the Arabic word for barley, 
and the Turkish for opium {madjoon), which I have learnt from 
"* Anastasius^"* and as I had neither a Malay dictionary, nor even 
Adelung's " Mithridates," which might have helped me to a few words, 
I addressed him in some lines from the "Iliad," considering that, of 
such languages as I possessed, the Greek, in point of longitude, came 
geographically nearest to an oriental one. He worshipped me in a 
devout manner, and replied in what I suppose to have been Malay. 
In this way I saved my reputation as a linguist with my neighbours, 
for the Malay had no means of betraying the secret. He lay down 
upon the floor for about an hour, and then pursued his journey. On 
his departure I presented him, inter alia, with a piece of opium. To 
him, as a native of the East, I could have no doubt that opium was not 
less familiar than his daily bread 3 and the expression of his face con- 
vinced me that it was. Nevertheless, I was struck with some little con- 
sternation when I saw him suddenly raise his hand to his mouth, and 
bolt the whole, divided into three pieces, at one mouthful. The 
quantity was enough to kill some half dozen dragoons, together with 
their horses, supposing neither bipeds nor quadrupeds to be regularly 
trained opium-eaters. I felt some alarm for the poor creature 3 but 
what could be done? I had given him the opium in pure compassion 
for his solitary life, since, if he had travelled on foot from London, it 
must be nearly three weeks since he could have exchanged a thought 
with any human being. Ought I to have violated the laws of hospi- 
tality by having him seized and drenched with an emetic, thus 
frightening him into a notion that we were going to sacrifice him to 
some English idol? No 3 there was clearly no help for it. The mischief, 
if any, was done. He took his leave, and for some days I felt anxious ; 
but, as I never heard of any Malay, or of any man in a turban being 
found dead on any part of the very slenderly peopled road between 
Grasmeie and Whitehaven, I became satisfied that he was familiar 



* A novel, by Thomas Hope. See pp. 135 — 139. 



Milton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 147 

with opium, and that I must doubtless have done him the service I 
designed, by giving him one night of respite from the pains of wan- 
dering. — Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, 



55.— ADAM AND EVE IN EDEN. 

[Milton, 1608 — 1674. 
[John Milton, born in Bread Street, London, Dec. 9, 1608, was educated at 
St. Paul's School and Christ's College, Cambridge. In 1637 he left England for 
Italy, and returned in 1639. In 1641, his first political treatise, " Of Reformation," 
appeared, and for many years Milton took a very prominent part in public affairs. 
He was appointed Latin Secretary to the Council of State, and he became 
totally blind in 1654. Milton, who was three times married, died Nov. 8, 1674. 
Though he wrote numerous prose works, it is by his poetry that he is best known. 
"The Masque of Comus " was first published in 1637, and "Lycidas" in 1638. 
" Paradise Lost," for which the author received five pounds, appeared in 1667. It 
consisted only of ten books. In the second edition, published in 1674, it was 
divided into twelve books. The " Paradise Regained," in four books, and " Samson 
Agonistes," appeared in 1671. Various editions of his prose and poetical works 
have appeared, and they have been translated into most modern languages. Numerous 
biographies of Milton have been published, the best known are by J. Poland in 
1698, by T. Birch in 1753, by Dr. Symons in 1805, by H. J. Todd in 1809, by the 
Rev. J. Mitford in 1853, by J. Keightley in 1855, by D. Masson (unfinished) in 
1858, and by J. N. Morris in 1862. The first volume of Dr. Johnson's "Lives of 
the Poets " contains a biography of Milton. The following was written by Dryden 

"under MR. MILTOn's PICTURE, BEFORE HIS ' PARADISE LOST.' 

" Three poets in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed ; 
The next in majesty; in both the last. 
The force of nature could no further go ; 
To make a third, she joined the former two."] 

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird. 
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale -, 
She all night long heramorous descant sung ; 
Silence was pleased : now glowed the firmament 
With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
Apparent queen unveiled her peerless light. 
And o'er die dark her silver mantle threw. 

When Adam thus to Eve : — " Fair consort ! the hoar 
Of night, and all things now retired to rest 

L 2 



148 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Milton. 

Mind us of like repose, since God hath set 
Labour and rest, as day and night to men 
Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep 
Now falling with soft slumbrous weight inclines 
Our eyelids : other creatures all day long 
Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest j 
Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
A.nd the regard of Heaven on all his ways j 
While other animals unactive range. 
And of their doings God takes no account. 
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
With first approach of light, we must be risen. 
And at our pleasant labour, to reform 
Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green. 
Oar walk at noon, with branches overgrown. 
That mock onr scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth : 
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gTims, 
That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth. 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease j 
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." 

To whom thus Eve with perfect beauty adorned : — 
" My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st 
Unargued I obeyj so God ordains. — 
God is thy law, thou, mine : to know no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. 
With thee conversing, I forget all time -, 
All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet. 
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun. 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower. 
Glistering with dew 3 fragrant the fertile earth 
After soft showers j and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train : — 
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower. 
Glistering with dew j nor fragrance after showers j 
Nor grateful evening mild 5 nor silent night. 






a Kempis,] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 149 

With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon. 
Or glittering star-light, without thee, is sweet. 
But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom 
This glorious sights when sleep hath shut all eyes?" 

To whom our general ancestor replied : — 
" Daughter of God and man, accomplished Eve, 
These have their course to finish round the earth. 
By morrow evening, and from land to land 
In order, though to nations yet unborn. 
Ministering light prepared, they set and rise ; 
Lest total darkness should by night regain 
Her old possession, and extinguish life 
In nature and in all things, which these soft fires 
Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat 
Of various influence foment and warm. 
Temper or nourish, or in part shed down 
Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
Perfection from the sun's more potent rays. 
These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night. 
Shine not in vain j nor think, though men were none. 
That heaven would want spectators, God want praise : 
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep : 
All these with ceaseless praise his works behold 
Both day and night : how often from the steep 
Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
Celestial voices to the midnight air. 
Sole, or responsive each to other's note. 
Singing their great Creator ? Oft in bands 
While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk 
With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
In full harmonic number joined, their songs 
Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heaven." 

Paradise Lost, Book iv. 



56.— THE KNOWLEDGE OF TRUTH. 

[a Kempis, 1380 — 1471. 

[Thomas a Kempis, or Von Kempen, born at Kempen, near Cologne, in 1380, was 
educated at Deventer, and entered the Augustinian monastery of Agnetenberg, near 
Zwoll, of which his brother John was Prior, in 1400. He took the vows in 1406, 
entered into priest's orders in 1413, and passed his whole life in the monastery. 



150 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[a Kempis. 



where he died July 25, 1471. "The Imitation of Jesus Christ," though attributed 
to John Gerson, Chancellor of the University of Paris, and to John Gerson, abbot 
of a monastery at Vercelli, is now generally believed to have been written by a Kempis. 
The first Latin edition appeared at Augsburg about 147 1 ; the first French transla- 
tion in 1488; the first English edition, consisting of three books only, translated by 
Dr. R. Atkinson, was published by W. De Worde in 1502; the fourth book 
(translated by Margaret, mother to Henry VII.) appeared in 1504. The work has 
been translated by various hands. Thomas a Kempis compiled a Chronicle of 
the monastery and some other works. A " Life of Kempis," by Brewer, ap- 
peared in 1636; another, by Charles Butler, in 1814. Several biographies have 
been written. Fontenelle says of his book, " It is the finest work that hath 
proceeded from the pen of man, the Gospel being of divine origin." Hallam (Lit. 
Hist., p. i. ch. i. § 63), remarks: "The book itself is said to have gone through 
1800 editions, and has probably been more read than any other work after the 
Scriptures." Milman (Lat. Christianity, b. xiv. ch. 3), says : " No book has been 
so often reprinted, no book has been so often translated^ or into so many languages. 
* * * * The style is ecclesiastical Latin, but the perfection of ecclesiastical 
Latin — brief, pregnant, picturesque; expressing profound thoughts in the fewest 
words, and those words, if compared with the scholastics, of purer Latin sound or 
construction. The facility with which it passed into all other languages, those 
especially of Roman descent, bears witness to its perspicuity, vivacity, and energy."] 

Happy the man whom Truth teacheth, not by obscure figures and 
transient sounds, but by showing herself to be such as she really is. 
The perceptions of our senses are narrow and dull, and our reasoning 
on those perceptions frequently misleads us. To what purpose are our 
disputations on hidden and obscure subjects, for our ignorance of 
which we shall not be brought into judgment at the latter day ? How 
extravagant the folly to neglect the study of the "one thing needful," 
and wholly devote our time and faculties to that which is not only 
vainly curious, but sinful, and dangerous as the state of " those that 
have eyes, and see not !"* 

And what have redeeftied souls to do with the distinctions and 
subtleties of logic ? He whom the Eternal Word condescendeth to 
teach, is disengaged at once from the labyrinth of human opinions. 
For of " One Word are all things ^''f and all things, without voice or 
language, speak Him alone. He is that divine principle which 
speaketh in our hearts, and without which, there can be neither just 
apprehension, nor right judgment. Now he to whom all things are 
but this One, who comprehendeth all things in His Will, and beholdeth 
all things in His light, hath " his heart hxed," and "abideth in peace 
of God." 

"O, God ! who art the Truth,"| make me one with Thee in ever- 
lasting love ! I am oJ'ten weary of reading, and of hearing many things. 



I 



* Psalm cxv. 5. 



t John i. 3. 



X John xiv. 6. 



a Kempis.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 151 

111 Thee alone, is the sum of all my desires. Let all teachers be silent ; 
let the whole creation be dumb before Thee ; and do Thou only speak 
unto my soul ! 

The more any one is united to God in himself, and advanced in 
singleness and simplicity of heart, the more readily will he comprehend 
numerous and loftier things without the eifort of study 3 because he 
receives the light of understanding from above. A spirit pure, simple, 
and constant, is not, like Martha, distracted and troubled " aboQt 
many things j" because, inwardly at rest, it seeketh not its own glory 
in what it does, but " doth all to the glory of God :" for there is no 
other cause of perplexity and disquiet, but an unsubdued will and 
unmortified affections. A holy and spiritual man, by reducing these 
to the rule and standard of his own mind, becomes the master of all his 
outward acts 3 he does not sufler himself to be led by them to the 
indulgence of any inordinate affections that terminate in self, but sub- 
jects them to the unalterable judgment of an inspired and sanctified 
spirit. 

Who hath a harder conflict to endure, than he who labours to 
subdue himself? But in this we must be continually engaged, if we 
would be more strengthened in the inner man, and make real pro- 
gress towards perfection. Indeed, the highest perfection we can attain to 
in the present state, is alloyed with much imperfection 3 and our best 
knowledge is obscured by the shades of ignorance. "" We see thro' 
a glass darkly." An humble knowledge of thyself, therefore, is a more 
certain way of leading thee to God, than the most profound investiga- 
tions of science. Science, however, or a proper knowledge of the 
things that belong to the present life, is so far from being blameable in 
itself, that it is good, and ordained of God 3 but purity of conscience, 
and holiness of life, must ever be preferred before it. And because men 
are more solicitous to learn much, than to live well, they fall into 
error, and receive little or no benefit from their studies. O, that the 
same diligence were exerted to eradicate vice, and implant virtue, 
as are applied to the discussion of unprofitable questions, and the 
"vain strife of words!" — so much daring wickedness would not be 
found among the common ranks of men, nor so much licentiousness 
disgrace those who live in monasteries. Assuredly, in the approaching 
day of judgment, it will not be inquired of us what we have read, but 
what we have done 3 not how eloquently we have spoken, but how 
holily we have lived. 

Tell me, where are nowthose learned doctors and professors, who, 
while the honours of literature were blooming around them, you so 
well knew and so highly reverenced ? Their benefices are possessed by 
others, who scarcely nave them in remembrance. While living they 



152 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Temple. 

seemed to be something 3 but dead, the tongue is utterly silent about 
them. O how suddenly passeth away the glory of this world ! Had 
these men been as solicitous to be holy, as they were to be learned, 
their studies might have been blessed with that honour which cannot 
be sullied, and with that happiness which cannot be interrupted. How 
many perish in this life through a love of false science, and by a 
neglect of God's service ! And because they choose to be counted 
great, rather than humble, they are consumed, as it were, in their vain 
imaginations."^ 

He is truly great who has a great charity 3 he is truly great 
who is small in his own account ; and who considers the height 
of worldly honours as nothing. He is truly wise, who '^'^ counts all 
earthly things but as dung, that he may win Christ ^''f and he is truly 
learned; who abandons his own will, and does the will of God. — Of 
the Imitation of Christ, Book i. ch. iii. 



57.— OF HEROIC VIRTUE. 

[Sir W. Temple, 1628 — 1699. 

[William Temple, eldest son of Sir John Temple, Master of the Rolls in Ireland, was 
born in London in 1628, and educated at Bishop-Stortford and Emanuel College, 
Cambridge, where he did not remain long enough to take his degree. Having 
travelled on the Continent, he spent some years in Ireland, and was elected member 
for the county of Carlow. His first diplomatic appointment was a secret mission in 
1665 to the Bishop of Miinster, and he was afterwards resident at the vice-regal 
court of Spain at Brussels. He received a baronetcy in 1666, negotiated the Triple 
Alliance, concluded January 23, 1668, was appointed ambassador at Aix, and after- 
wards at the Hague. Dismissed in 1671, he retired to Sheen, where he wrote several 
works. "Observations upon the United Provinces of the Netherlands" was pub- 
lished in 1673, "Miscellanea, consisting of Ten Essays on Various Subjects" in 
1680 — 90, and "Memoirs of what passed in Christendom from 1672 to 1679" in 
1693. He was appointed ambassador extraordinary to the Hague in 1677, and at 
Nimeguen in 1678, and drew up the plan of a council adopted, with modifications, by 
Charles II. Sir William Temple refused office from William III,, and died January 
27, 1699. His life, by Abel Roger, appeared in 1715, another, by Lady Giflferd, in 
1 731, and another, by T. P. Courtenay, in 1836. Dr. Johnson says: — "Temple was 
the first writer who gave cadence to English prose : before his time they were careless 
of arrangement, and did not mind whether a sentence ended with an important word 
or an insignificant word, or with what part of speech it was concluded." And 
Hallam (Lit. Hist., part iv. chap. 7) says : — "His style, to which we should particularly 
refer, will be found, in comparison with his contemporaries, highly polished, and 
sustained with more equability than they preserve, remote from anything either 
pedantic or humble. The periods are studiously rhythmical, yet they want the 
variety and peculiar charm that we admire in those of Dryden." 



* Romans i. 21. f Phil. iii. 8. 



Temple.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 153 

Among all the endowments of nature, or improvements of art;, wherein 
men have excelled and distinguished themselves most in the world, 
there are two only that have had the honour of being called divine, and 
of giving that esteem or appellation to such as possessed them in very- 
eminent degrees, which are heroic virtue and poetry 3 for prophecy 
cannot be esteemed any excellency of nature or of art, but, wherever 
it is true, is an immediate gift of God, and bestowed according to His 
pleasure, and upon subjects of the meanest capacity — upon women and 
children, or even things inanimate — as the stones placed in the high 
priest's breast-plate, which were a sacred oracle among the Jews. 

I will leave poetry to an essay by itself, and dedicate this only to 
that antiquated shrine of heroic virtue, which, however forgotten or 
unknown in latter ages, must yet be allowed to have produced in the 
world the advantages most valued among men, and which most dis- 
tinguished their understandings and their lives from the rest of their 
fellow-creatures. 

Though it be easier to describe heroic virtue by the effects and 
examples than by causes or definitions, yet it may be said to arise from 
some great and native excellency of temper or genius transcending the 
common race of mankind in wisdom, goodness, and fortitude. These 
ingredients, advantaged by birth, improved by education, and assisted 
by fortune, seem to make that noble composition which gives such a 
lustre to those who have possessed it, as made them appear to common 
eyes something more than mortals, and to have been born of some 
mixture between divine and human race ; to have been honoured and 
obeyed in their lives, and after their deaths bewailed and adored. 

The greatness of their wisdom appeared in the excellency of their 
inventions 3 and these, by the goodness of their nature, were turned and 
exercised upon such subjects as were of general good to mankind in the 
common uses of life, or to their own countries in the institution of such 
laws, orders, or governments, as were of most ease, safety, and advan- 
tage to civil society. Their valour was employed in defending their 
own countries from the violence of ill men at home or enemies abroad 3 
in reducing their barbarous neighbours to the same forms and orders of 
civil lines and institutions 3 or in relieving others from the cruelties and 
oppressions of tyranny and violence. 

Those are all comprehended in three verses of Virgil, describing the 
blessed seats in Elysium, and those that enjoyed them : — 

" Here, such as for their country wounds received. 
Or who by arts invented life improved. 
Or by deserving, made themselves remembered." 

And, indeed, the character of heroic virtue seems to be, in short, the 



154 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Edgev/orth. 

deserving well of mankind. Where this is chief in design, and great 
in success, the pretence to a hero lies very fair, and can never be allowed 
without it. 

I have said that this excellency of genius must be native, because it 
can never grow to any great height if it be only acquired or affected ; 
but it must be ennobled by birth to give it more lustre, esteem, and 
authority ; it must be cultivated by education and instruction, to improve 
its growth, and direct its end and application 3 and it must be assisted 
by fortune to preserve it to maturity, because the noblest spirit or 
genius in the world, if it fails — though never so bravely — in its first 
enterprises, cannot deserve enough of mankind to pretend to so great a 
reward as the esteem of heroic virtue. And yet, perhaps, many a 
person has died in the first battle or adventure he achieved, and lies 
buried in silence and oblivion, who, had he outlived as many dangers 
as Alexander did, might have shined as bright in honours and fame. 
Now, since so many stars go to the making up of this constellation, it 
is no wonder it has so seldom appeared in the world ; nor that, when it 
does, it is received and followed with so much gazing, and so much 
veneration. — Essays: Of Heroic Virtue. 



58.— A SCENE AT HALLORAN CASTLE. 

[Miss Edgeworth, 1767 — 1849. 

[Maria Edgeworth, the daughter of R. L. Edgeworth, was born at Hare Hatch, near 
Reading, January i, 1767. In 1782 her father removed, with his family, to his 
paternal estate at Edgeworth Town, in Ireland, where he devoted himself to the 
education of his daughter, who afterwards assisted him in his literary labours. Their 
first joint production, a series of " Essays on Practical Education," appeared in 
1798. The "Essay on Irish Bulls" was published in 1803. Miss Edgeworth's first 
novel, "Castle Rack rent," was published in 1801. This was followed by various 
series of Popular Tales, Moral Tales, and Tales of Fashionable Life, as well as 
educational works. Lord Macaulay believes that Miss Edgeworth in " The Absentee," 
and Miss Austen in " Mansfield Park," surpassed the founder of the modern school of 
female novelists. Miss Edgeworth died May 21, 1849.] 

One morning LadyDashfort had formed an ingenious scheme for leaving 
Lady Isabel and Lord Colambre tete-a-tete ; but the sudden entrance 
of Heathcock disconcerted her intentions. He came to beg Lady 
Dashfort's interest with Count O'Halloran for permission to hunt and 
shoot on his grounds next season. — " Not for myself, 'pon honour, but 
for two officers who are quartered at the next town here, who will 
indubitably hang or drown themselves if they are debarred from 
sporting." 

"Who is this Count O'Halloran?" said Lord Colambre. 

Miss White, Lady Killpatrick's companion, said " he was a great 



Edgeworth.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 155 

oddity j" Lady Dashfort "that he was singular j" and the clergyman of 
the parish, who was at breakfast, declared '' that he was a man of un- 
common knowledge, merit, and politeness." 

" All I know of him," said Heathcock, ''^is that he is a great sports- 
man, with a large queue, a gold-laced hat, and long skirts to a laced 
waistcoat." 

LordColambre expressed a wish to see this extraordinar}' personage j 
and Lady Dashfort, to cover her former design, and, perhaps, thinking- 
absence might be as effectual as too much propinquity, immediately 
offered to call upon the officers in their way, and carry them with 
Heathcock and Lord Colambre to Halloran Castle. 

Lady Isabel retired with much mortification, but with becoming 
grace 3 and ^lajor Benson and Captain Williamson were taken to the 
Count's. Major Benson, who was a famous whip, took his seat on 
the box of the barouche^ and the rest of the party had the pleasure of 
her ladyship's conyersation for three or four miles : of her ladyship's 
conversation — for Lord Colambre's thoughts were far distant. Captain 
Williamson had not anything to say, and Heathcock nothing but " Eh ! 
re'lly now ! 'pon honour !" 

They arrived at HaUoran Castle — a fine old building, part of it 
in ruins, and part repaired with great judgment and taste. When the 
carriage stopped a respectable-looking man-servant appeared on the 
steps at the open hall door. 

Count O'Halloran was out fishing, but his servant said that he would 
be at home immediately if Lady Dashfort and the gentlemen would 
be pleased to walk in. 

On one side of the loft}^ and spacious hall stood the skeleton of an 
elk ; on the other side the perfect skeleton of a moose deer, which as 
the servant said, his master had made out with great care, from the 
• different bones of many of this curious species of deer, found in the 
lakes in the neighbourhood. The leash of officers witnessed their 
wonder with sundry strange oaths and exclamations. " Eh ! 'pon 
honour — re'lly now!" said Heathcock 3 and, too genteel to won- 
der at or admire anything in the creation, dragged out his watch with 
some difficult}^, saying, "I wonder now whether they are likely to 
think of giving us anything to eat in this placer" And, turning his 
back upon the moose deer, he straight walked out again upon the 
steps, called to his groom, and began to make some inquir}^ about his 
led horse. Lord Colambre surveyed the prodigious skeletons with 
rational curiosity, and with that sense of awe and admiration by which 
a superior mind is always struck on beholding any of the great works 
of Providence. 

"Come, my dear lord!" said Lady Dashfort 3 'Svith our sublime 



/ 



/ 



156 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Edgeworth. 

sensations, we are keeping my old friend, Mr. Ulick Brady, this 
venerable person, waiting to show us into the reception room." 

The servant bowed respectfully — more respectfully than servants of 
modern date. 

" My lady, the reception-room has been lately painted — the smell 
of paint may be disagreeable — with your leave, I will take the liberty of 
showing you into my master's study." 

He opened the door, went in before her, and stood holding up his 
finger, as if making a signal of silence to some one within. Her lady- 
ship entered, and found herself in the midst of an odd assembly : an 
eagle, a goat, a dog, an otter, several gold and silver lish in a glass 
globe, and a white mouse in a cage. The eagle, quick of eye but quiet 
of demeanour, was perched upon his stand ; the otter lay under the 
table perfectly harmless ; tlie Angora goat, a beautiful and remarkably 
little creature of its kind, with long, curling, silky hair, was walking 
about the room with the air of a beauty and a favourite ; the dog, a 
tall Irish greyhound — one of the few of that fine race which is now 
almost extinct — had been given to Count O'Halloran by an Irish 
nobleman, a relation of Lady Dashfort's. This dog, who had formerly 
known her ladyship, looked at her with ears erect, recognised her, and 
went to meet her the moment she entered. The servant answered for the 
peaceable behaviour of all the rest of the company of animals, and retired. 
Lady Dashfort began to feed the eagle from a silver plate on his stand ; 
Lord Colambre examined the inscription on his collar ; the other men 
stood in amaze. Heathcock, who came in last, astonished out of his 
constant "■ Eh ! re'lly now !" the moment he put himself in at the door, 
exclaimed "Zounds! what's all this live lumber?" and he stumbled 
over the goat, who was at that moment crossing the way. The 
Colonel's spur caught in the goat's curly beard ; the Colonel shook his 
foot, and entangled the spur worse and worse ; the goat struggled and 
butted ; the Colonel skated forward on the polished oak floor, balancing 
himself with outstretched arms. 

The indignant eagle screamed, and passing by perched on Heath- 
cock's shoulders. Too well bred to have recourse to the terrors of his 
beak, he scrupled not to scream, and flap his wings about the Colonel's 
ears. Lady Dashfort, the while, threw herself back in her chair 
laughing, and begging Heathcock's pardon. " Oh, take care of the 
dog, my dear Colonel!" cried shej "for this kind of dog seizes his 
enemy by the back, and shakes him to death." The officers, holding 
their sides, laughed and begged — no pardon ; while Lord Colambre, 
the only person who was not absolutely incapacitated, tried to dis- 
entangle the spur, and to liberate the Colonel from the goat, and the 
goat from the Colonel 3 an attempt in which he at last succeeded, 



Mommsen.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 157 

at the expense of a considerable portion of the goat's beard. The 
eagle, however, still kept his place 3 and, yet mindful of the wrongs 
of his insulted friend the goat, had stretched his wings to give another 
buffet. Count O'Halloran entered 3 and the bird, quitting his prey, 
flew down to greet his master. The Count was a fine old military- 
looking gentleman, fresh from fishing, his fishing accoutrements 
hanging carelessly about him 3 he advanced, unembarrassed, to Lady 
Dash fort, and received his other guests with a mixture of military 
ease and gentlemanlike dignity. 

Without adverting to the awkward and ridiculous situation in which 
he had found poor Heathcock, he apologized in general for his 
troublesome favourites. *^For one of them," said he, patting the 
head of the dog, which lay quiet at Lady Dashfort's feet, '' I see I 
have no need to apologize 3 he is where he ought to be. Poor fellow ! 
he has never lost his taste for the good company to which he was 
early accustomed. As to the rest," said he, turning to Lady Dashfort, 
"a mouse, a bird, and a fish, are, you know, tribute from earth, air, 
and water, to a conqueror " 

"But from no barbarous Scythian !" said Lord Colambre, smiling. 
The Count looked at Lord Colambre as at a person worthy his atten- 
tion 3 but his first care was to keep the peace between his loving 
subjects and his foreign visitors. It was difficult to dislodge the old 
settlers to make room for the new comers : but he adjusted these 
things with admirable facility, and, with a master's hand and master's 
eye, compelled each favourite to retreat into the back settlements. 
With becoming attention he stroked and kept quiet old Victory, his 
eagle, who eyed Colonel Heathcock still, as if he did not like him, 
and whom the Colonel eyed as if he wished his neck fairly wrung off. 
The little goat had nestled himself close up to his liberator. Lord 
Colambre, and lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed, going very 
wisely to sleep, and submitting philosophically to the loss of one half 
of his beard. — The Absentee, ch. viii. 



59.— CHARACTER OF PUBLIUS SCIPIO. 

[Mommsen, 1817. 

[Theodor Mommsen, son of a Lutheran minister, born at Garding, in Schleswig, in 
181 7, was educated at Altona and the University of Kiel, in which he took his 
degree in 1843. Having spent three years in investigating Roman inscriptions in 
France and Italy, he published treatises on these subjects in various scientific 
periodicals. He was editor of a Schleswig-Holstein newspaper in 1848, and soon 
after obtained a professorship at Berlin, but the appointment was cancelled in 1850 
on account of his extreme political views. He obtained a similar appointment at 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Mommsen. 



Zurich, and has published several archaeological and historical works. His principal 
work, " The History of Rome," translated into English, with the author's sanction, 
and additions by the Rev. W. P. Dickson, appeared in 1862-3.] 

The senate, which formed a correct judgment as to the importance 
and the peculiar character of the Spanish war^ and had learned from 
the Uticenses brought in as prisoners by the Roman fleet the great 
exertions which were making in Carthage to send Hasdrubal and 
Masinissa with a numerous army over the Pyrenees, resolved to 
dispatch to Spain new reinforcements, and an extraordinary general of 
higher rank, the nomination of whom they deemed it expedient to 
leave to the people. For long (so runs the story) nobody announced 
himself as a candidate for the perilous and complicated office 3 but at 
last a young officer of twenty-seven, Publius Scipio (son of the general 
of the same name who had fallen in Spain), who had held the offices 
of military tribune and aedile, came forward to solicit it. It is incre- 
dible that the Roman senate should have left to accident an election of 
such importance in an assembly which it had itself suggested, and 
equally incredible that ambition and patriotism should have so died out 
in Rome that no tried officer presented himself for the important post. 
If, on the other hand, the eyes of the senate turned to the young, 
talented, and experienced officer, who had brilliantly distinguished 
himself in the hotly contested days on the Trebia and at Cannae, but 
who still had not the rank requisite for his coming forward as the 
successor of men who had been praetors and consuls, it was very 
natural to adopt this course, which as it were in courtesy, constrained the 
people to admit the only candidate, notwithstanding his defective 
qualification, and which could not but bring both him and the Spanish 
expedition, that was doubtless very unpopular, into favour with the 
multitude. If such was the object of this ostensibly unpremeditated 
candidature, it was perfectly successful. The son, who went to 
avenge the death of a father whose life he had saved nine years before 
at the Trebia ; the young man of manly beauty and long locks, who 
with modest blushes offered himself in the absence of a better for the 
post of danger ; the mere military tribune, whom the votes of the 
centuries now raised at once to the roll of the highest magistracies — 
all these circumstances made a wonderful and indelible impression on 
the citizens and farmers of Rome. And in truth Publius Scipio was 
one who was himself enthusiastic, and who inspired enthusiasm. He 
was not one of the few who by their energy and iron will constrain 
the world to adopt and to move in new paths for centuries, or who 
grasp the reins of destiny for years till its wheels roll over them. 
Publius Scipio gained battles and conquered countries under the instruc- 
tions of the senate 3 with the aid of his military laurels, he took also a 



Helps.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 159 

prominent position in Rome as a statesman ; but a wide intenal 
separates such a man from an Alexander or a Caesar. As an officer, 
he rendered at least no greater service to his country than Marcus 
]Marcellus ; and as a politician, although not perhaps himself fully- 
conscious of the unpatriotic and personal character of his policy, he 
injured his countrj- at least as much as he benefited it by his military 
skill. Yet a special charm lingers around the form of that graceful 
hero ; it is surrounded, as with a dazzling halo, by the atmosphere of 
serene and confident inspiration, in which Scipio with mingled 
credulity and adroitness always moved, with quite enough of enthusiasm 
to warm men's hearts, and enough of calculation to follow in every 
case the dictates of intelligence, while not leaving out of account the 
vulgar: not naive enough to share the belief of the multitude in his 
divine inspirations, nor straightforward enough to set it aside, and yet 
in secret thoroughly persuaded that he was a man specially favoured 
of the gods — in a word, a genuine prophetic nature ; raised above the 
people, and not less aloof from them 3 a man steadfast to his word and 
kingly in his bearing, who thought that he would humble himself by 
adopting the ordinary^ title of a king, but could never understand how 
the constitution of the Repubhc should in his case be binding 3 so 
confident in his own greatness that he knew nothing of en^y or of 
hatred, courteously acknowledged other men's merits, and compas- 
sionately forgave other men's faults 3 an excellent officer and a refined 
diplomatist, without presenting the offensive special stamp of either 
calhng, uniting Hellenic culture with the fullest national feeling of a 
Roman, an accomplished speaker, and of graceful manners — Publius 
Scipio won the hearts of soldiers and of women, of his countrymen 
and of the Spaniards, of his rivals in the senate and of his greater 
Carthaginian antagonist. Soon his name was on every one' slips, and 
his was the star which seemed destined to bring victor)'" and peace to 
his country. — The History of Rome, B. iii. ch. vi. 



60.— DISCOVERY OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN. 

[Helps, 1817. 

[Arthur Helps, born in 181 7, and educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, has held 
several official appointments, and was made Clerk of the Privy- Council in 1859. 
His first work, " Essays written in the Intervals of Business," published anonymously, 
appeared in 1841. The first series of " Friends in Council" was published in May, 
1847, and the second series in July, 1849. " Companions of my Solitude" appeared 
in 185 1, and the " Spanish Conquest of America" in 1855. Mr. Helps is the author 
of several other works.] 

Vasco Nunez resolved, therefore, to be the discoverer of that sea. 



i6o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Helps. 

and of those rich lands to which Comogre's son had pointed, when, 
after rebuking the Spaniards for their "brabbling"* about the division 
of the gold, he turned his face towards the south. In the peril which 
so closely impended over Vasco Nunez, there was no use in waiting 
for reinforcements from Spain : when those reinforcements should 
come, his dismissal would come too. Accordingly, early in September, 
i^j.3, he set out on his renowned expedition for finding *^ the other 
sea," accompanied by a hundred and ninety men well armed, and by 
dogs, which were of more avail than men, and by Indian slaves to 
carry the burthens. 

Following Poncha's guide, Vasco Nunez and his men commenced 
the ascent of the mountains, until he entered the country of an Indian 
chief called Quarequa, whom they found fully prepared to resist them. 
The brave Indian advanced at the head of his troops, intending to 
make a vigorous attack ; but they could not withstand the discharge of 
the fire-arms. Indeed, they believed the Spaniards to have thunder 
and lightning in their hands — not an unreasonable fancy — and, flying 
in the utmost terror from the place of battle, a total rout ensued. 
The rout was a bloody one, and is described by an author, who gained 
his information from those who were present at it, as a scene to remind 
one of the shambles. The king and his principal men were slain, to 
the number of six hundred. Speaking of these people, Peter Martyr 
makes mention of the sweetness of their language, saying that all the 
words in it might be written in Latin letters, as was also to be remarked 
in that of the inhabitants of Hispaniola. This writer also mentions, 
and there is reason for thinking that he was correctly informed, that 
there was a region, not two days' journey from Quarequa's territory, in 
which Vasco Nunez found a race of black men, who were conjectured 
to have come from Africa, and to have been shipwrecked on this 
coast. Leaving several of his men who were ill, or over-weary, in 
Quarequa's chief town, and taking with him guides from this country, 
the Spanish commander pursued his way up the most lofty sierras 
there, until, on the 25th of September, 1513, he came near to the top 
of a mountain, from whence the South Sea was visible. The distance 
from Poncha's chief town to this point was forty leagues, reckoned 
then six days' journey, but Vasco Nunez and his men took twenty-fiy^ 
days to accomplish it, as they suffered much from the roughness of 
the ways and from the want of provisions. 

A little before Vasco Nunez reached the height, Quarequa's Indians 
informed him of his near approach to the sea. It was a sight m 



* i.e., quarrelling. 



Helps.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. i6i 

beholding which for the first time any man would wish to be alone. 
Vasco Nunez bade his men sit down while he ascended, and then, in 
solitude, looked down upon the vast Pacific — the first man of the Old 
World, so far as we know, who had done so. Falling on his knees, he 
gave thanks to God for the favour shown to him, in his being permitted 
to discover the sea of the South. Then with his hand he beckoned 
to his men to come up. When they had come, both he and they knelt 
down, and poured forth their thanks to God. He then addressed 
them in these words : "You see here, gentlemen and children mine, 
how our desires are being accomplished, and the end of our labours. 
Of that we ought to be certain 3 for, as it has turned out true, what 
King Comogre's son told of this sea to us, who never thought to see 
it, so I hold for certain that what he told us of there being incom- 
parable treasures in it will be fulfilled. God and his blessed mother, 
who have assisted us, so that we should arrive here and behold this 
sea, will favour us, that we may enjoy all that there is in it." 

Afterwards, they all devoutly sang the '' Te Deum Laudamus3" and 
a list was drawn up, by a notar}', of those who were present at this 
discovery, which was made upon St. Martin's day. 

Every great and original action has a prospective greatness — not 
alone from the thought of the man who achieves it, but from the 
various aspects and high thoughts which the same action will continue 
to present and call up in the minds of others to the end, it may be, 
of all time. And so a remarkable event may go on acquiring more 
and more significance. In this case, our knowledge that the Pacific, 
which" Vasco Nunez then beheld, occupies more than one half of the 
earth's surface, is an element of thought which in our minds lightens 
up and gives an awe to this first gaze of his upon those mighty 
waters. To him the scene might not at that moment have suggested 
much more than it would have done to a mere conqueror ; indeed 
Peter Martyr likens Vasco Nunez to Hannibal showing Italy to 
his soldiers. 

Having thus addressed his men, Vasco Nunez proceeded to take 
formal possession, on behalf of the kings of CastiUe, of the sea, and 
of all that was in it j and, in order to make memorials of the event, 
he cut down trees, formed crosses, and heaped up stones. He 
also inscribed the names of the monarchs of Castille upon great trees 
in the vicinity. — The Spanish Conquest in America, and its Relation to 
the History of Slavery and to the Government of Colonies, vol. i. 
Book vi. ch. i. 



1 62 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Emerson. 



6i.— DIFFERENT MINDS. 

[Emerson, 1803. 

[Ralph Waldo Emerson, son of a Unitarian Minister at Boston, was born in 1803, 
graduated at Harvard College in 1821, and was ordained Minister of the second Uni- 
tarian Church at Boston. He published "Literary Ethics, an Oration," in 1838, and 
"Nature, an Essay," in 1839. The first series of his essays appeared in 1841, and the 
second series in 1844. He visited England in 1825 and m 1849, '^^^ ^^ the latter occa- 
sion delivered a series of lectures on "Representative Men," which have since been pub- 
lished both in England and America. His " English Traits" appeared in 1856, and 
*' The Conduct of Life" in i860. Mr. Emerson published a volume of poems in 
1846, and has contributed largely to American periodicals. Many of his works have 
been republished in England.] 

In every man's mind some images, words, and facts remain, without 
eifort on his part to imprint them, which others forget, and afterwards 
these illustrate to him important laws. All our progress is an unfold- 
ing, like the vegetable bud. You have first an instinct, then an 
opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust 
the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason. It is vain 
to hurry it. By trusting it to the end it shall ripen into truth, and you 
shall know why you believe. 

Each mind has its own method ! A true man never acquires after 
college rules. What you have aggregated in a natural manner sur- 
prises and delights when it is produced. For we cannot oversee each 
other's secret ! And hence the differences between men in natural 
endowment are insignificant in comparison with their common wealth. 
Do you think the porter and the cook have no anecdotes, no ex- 
periences, no wonder for you ? Everybody knows as much as the ser- 
vants. The walls of rude minds are scrawled all over with facts, with 
thoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern and read the iiLscrip- 
tions. Every man, in the degree in which he has wit and culture, 
finds his curiosity inflamed concerning the modes of living and thinking 
of other men, and especially those classess whose minds have not been 
subdued by the drill of school education. 

This instinctive action never ceases in a healthy mind, but becomes 
richer and more frequent in its information through all states of cul- 
ture. At last comes the aera of reflection, when we not only observe, 
but take pains to observe j when we of set purpose sit down to consider 
an abstract truth ; when we keep the mind's eye open, whilst we con- 
verse, whilst we read, whilst we act, intent to learn the secret law of 
some class of facts. 

What is the hardest task in the world? To think. I would put my- 
self in the attitude to look in the eye an abstract truth, and I cannot. 
I blench and withdraw on this side and on that. I seem to know 
what he meant, who said, " No man can see God face to face and live." 



DrydenJ OF MODERN LITERATURE. 163 

For example, a man explores the basis of civil government. Let him 
intend his mind without respite, without rest, in one direction. His 
best heed long time avails him nothing. Yet thoughts are flitting be- 
fore him. We all but apprehend, we dimly forebode the truth. We 
say, I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and clearness to 
me. We go forth, but cannot find it. It seems as if we needed only 
the stillness and composed attitude of the library, to seize the thought. 
But we come in, and are as far from it as at first. Then, in a moment, 
and unannounced, the truth appears. A certain wandering light 
appears, and is the distinction, the principle we wanted. But the 
oracle comes^ because we had previously laid siege to the shrine. It 
seems as if the law of the intellect resembles tl at law of nature by 
which we now inspire, now expire, the breath by which the heart now 
draws in, then hurls out the blood — the law of undulation. So now 
you must labour with your brains, and now you must forbear your 
activity, and see what the great soul showeth. — Twelve Essays. No. xi. 



62.— THE CHARACTER OF ABSALOM.* 

[Dryden, 1631 — 1701. 

[John Dryden, born at Aldwinkle, in Northamptonshire, August g, 1631, was 
descended from Sir Erasmus Dryden, of Canons Ashby, in that county, and was 
educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge. At an early age 
he wrote several small poems. His first dramatic effort, " The Wild Gallant," ap- 
peared in 1663. In 1670 he was appointed poet laureate, which office was, on account 
of his being a Roman Catholic, transferred to Thomas Shadwell in 1689. Dryden 
was a most prolific writer. The productions by which he is best known are the 
" Essay on Dramatic Poesy," published in 1668, the satire of "Absalom and Achi- 
tophel," in 1681, "The Hind and the Panther," in 1687, his translation of Virgil, 
which appeared in 1697, and his Fables in 1699. The well known " Ode on St. 
Cecilia's Day" was included in the last mentioned volume. Dryden died in Gerard 
Street, London, May I, 1701, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His works 
were published in four volumes in 1695, and in eighteen volumes in 1808. The 
latter, with notes and Life of Dryden by Sir Walter Scott, was republished in 1821. 
A " Life of Dryden" was prefixed to Samuel Derrick's edition of his Miscellaneous 
Works, in 1760, and one by Mitford to the Aldine edition of his Poetical Works, 
published in 1832. Dr. Johnson in his "Lives of the Poets" remarks — "Of Dry- 
den's works it was said by Pope that * he could select from them better specimens of 
every mode of poetry than any other English writer could supply.' Perhaps no 
nation ever produced a writer that enriched his language with such variety of models. 
To him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion, of our metre, the refine- 



* Intended for the Duke of Monmouth. 
M 2 



i64 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Dryden. 

ment of our language, and much of the correctness of our sentiments. By him we 
were taught sapere etfari, to think naturally and express forcibly. Though Davis 
has reasoned in rhyme before him, it may be perhaps maintained that he was the first 
who joined argument with poetry. He showed us the true bounds of a translator's 
liberty. What was said of Rome, adorned by Augustus, may be applied by an easy 
metaphor to English poetry embellished by Dryden ; lateritiam invenit, marmoream 
reliquit : ' He found it brick, and left it marble.' "] 

AcHiTOPHEL still wants a chief, and none 

Was found so fit as warlike Absalom. 

Not that he wished his greatness to create. 

For politicians neither love nor hate : 

But, for he knew his title not allowed. 

Would keep him still depending on the crowd : 

That kingly power, thus ebbing out, might be 

Drawn to the dregs of a democracy. 

Him he attempts with studied arts to please. 

And sheds his venom in such words as these. 

Auspicious prince, at whose nativity 

Some royal planet ruled the southern sky j 

Thy longing country's darling and desire j 

Their cloudy pillar and their guardian fire : % 

Their second Moses, whose extended wand 

Divides the seas, and shows the promised land j 

Whose dawning day in every distant age 

Has exercised the sacred prophet's rage : 

The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme. 

The young men's vision, and the old men's dream ! 

Thee, Saviour, thee the nation's vows confess, 

And, never satisfied with seeing, bless : 

Swift unbespoken pomps thy steps proclaim. 

And stammering babes are taught to lisp thy namej 

How long wilt thou the general joy detain. 

Starve and defraud the people of thy reign ! 

Content ingloriously to pass thy days. 

Like one of virtue's fools that feed on praise j 

Till thy fresh glories, which now shine so bright. 

Grow stale, and tarnish with our daily sight ! 

Believe me, royal youth, thy fruit must be. 

Or gathered ripe, or eat upon the tree. 

Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late. 

Some lucky revolution of their fate : 

Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill, 

(For human good depends on human will), 



Dryden.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 

Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent. 
And from the first impression takes the bent : 
But, if unseized, she glides away like wind. 
And leaves repenting folly far behind. 
Now, now she meets you with a glorious prize. 
And spreads her locks before her as she flies. 
Had thus old David, from whose loins you spring. 
Not dared when fortune called him to be king. 
At Gath an exile he might still remain. 
And Heaven's anointing oil had been in vain. 
Let his successful youth your hopes engage ; 
But shun the example of declining age : 
Behold him setting in his western skies. 
The shadows lengthening as the vapours rise. 
He is not now, as when on Jordan's sand 
The joj'ful people thronged to see him land. 
Covering the beach, and blackening all the strand ; 
But like the Prince oi Angels, from his height 
Comes tumbling downward with diminished light : 
Betrayed by one poor plot to public sconi 
(Our only blessing since his cursed return) : 
Those heaps of people which one sheaf did bind. 
Blown off and scattered by a puff of wind. 
What strength can he to your designs oppose. 
Naked of friends and round beset with foes ? 
If Pharaoh's doubtful succour he should use, 
A foreign aid would more incense tlie Jews : 
Proud Egypt would dissembled friendship bring. 
Foment the war, but not support the king : 
Nor would the royal party e'er unite 
With Pharaoh's arms to assist the Jebusite | 
Or, if they should, their interest soon would break, 
And with such odious aid make David weak. 
All sorts of men by my successful arts. 
Abhorring kings, estrange their altered hearts 
From David's rule : and 'tis their general cry. 
Religion, commonwealth, and liberty. 
If you, as cliampion of the public good. 
Add to their arms a chief of royal blood. 
What may not Israel hope, and what applause 
Might such a general gain by such a cause ? 
Not barren praise alone, that gaudy flower 
Fair only to the sight, but solid power : 



i65 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tillotson. 

And nobler is a limited command. 
Given by the love of all your native land. 
Than a successive title, long and dark^ 
Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's ark. 

Absalom and Achitophel, pt. i. 



63.— ALL-SUFFICIENCY OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION. 

[Tillotson, 1630 — 1694. 

[John Tillotson, the son of a clothier, born at Sowerby, in Yorkshire, in 1630, was 
educated at Clare Hall, Cambridge, and obtained a fellowship in 165 1. He was 
ordained in 1660, and appointed preacher at Lincoln's Inn, and lecturer at St. 
Laurence's Church, Jewry, in 1664. From this time his rise was rapid, having been 
appointed prebendary of Canterbury in 1669, dean in 1672, prebendary of St. Paul's 
in 1675, and caiion residentiary of St. Paul's in 1677 ; clerk of the closet to William 
III. in April, 1689, dean of St. Paul's in 1690, and archbishop of Canterbury in April, 
1691. Tillotson, who married Miss French, a niece of Oliver Cromwell, and step- 
daughter of Bishop Wilkins, died November 22, 1694. The first volume of his 
Sermons, many of which were published separately, appeared in 1671, the second in 
1678, the third in 1682, the fourth in 1694, and the remaining ten volumes were 
brought out after his death. " The Rule of Faith," a reply to Sergeant's " Sure 
Footing in Christianity," &c., appeared in 1666. Several editions of his collected 
works have been published. An account of his life appeared in 171 7, and another, by 
T. Birch, was prefixed to a folio edition of his works published in 1752. Hallam 
(Lit. Hist., part iv. chap. 2) remarks : — " The sermons of Tillotson were for half a 
century more read than any in our language. They are now bought almost as waste 
paper, and hardly read at all. Such is the fickleness of religious taste, as abundantly 
numerous instances would prove."] 

Philosophy hath given us several plausible rules for the attaining of 
peace and tranquillity of mii^d, but they fall very much short of 
bringing men to it. The very best of them fail us upon the greatest 
occasions. But the Christian religion hath effectually done all that 
which philosophy pretended to and aimed at. The precepts and 
promises of the Holy Scriptures are every way sufficient for our comfort, 
and for our instruction in righteousness, to correct all the errors, and to 
bear us up under all the evils and adversities of human life ; especially 
that holy and heavenly doctrine which is contained in the admirable 
sermons of our Saviour, whose excellent discourses when we read, what 
philosopher do we not despise ? None of the philosophers could, upon 
sure grounds, give that encouragement to their scholars which our 
Saviour does to his disciples : — " Take my yoke upon you, and learn 
of me, and ye shall find rest to your souls. For my yoke is easy, and 
my burden is light." 

This is the advantage of the Christian religion sincerely believed and 



TiUotson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 167 

practised, that it gives perfect rest and tranquillity to the mind of man; 
it trees us from the guilt of an evil conscience, and from the power ol 
our lusts, and from the sla\ish fear of death and of the vengeance ot 
another world. It builds our comfort upon a rock, which will abide 
all storms, and remain unshaken in every condition, will last and hold 
out for ever. "He that heareth these sayings of mine and doedi them, 
(saith our Lord,) I will hken him to a wise man who built his house 
upon a rock." 

In short, religion makes the life of man a wise design^ regular and 
constant to itself, because it unites all our resolutions and actions in one 
great end ; whereas without religion, the life of man is a wdld, and 
fluttering, and inconstant thing, without any certain scope and design. 
The vicious man lives at random, and acts by chance; for he that 
walks by no rule can carry on no settled and steady design. It would 
pity a man's heart to see how hard such men are put to it for diversion, 
and what a burden time is to them ; and how solicitous they are to 
devise ways not to spend it but to squander it aw^ay 3 for tlieir great 
grievance is consideration, and to be obliged to be intent upon anything 
that is serious. They hurr}- from one vanity and folly to another ; and 
plunge themselves into drink, not to quench their thirst, but their guilt; 
and are beholden to every vain man, and to every trifling occasion that 
can but help to take time ofl" their hands. Wretched and inconsiderate 
men ! — who have so vast a work before them, the happiness of all 
eternity to take care of and provide for, and yet are at a loss how to 
employ their time: so that irreligion and vice makes life an extravagant 
and unnatural thing, because it perverts and overthrows the natural 
course and order of things. For instance, according to nature men 
labour to get an estate, to free themselves from temptations to rapine 
and injury ; and that they may have wherewithal to supply their own 
wants, and to relieve the needs of others. But now the covetous man 
heaps up riches, not to enjoy them, but to have them; and starves him- 
self in the midst of plenty, and most unnaturally cheats and robs him- 
self of that which is his own ; and makes a hard shift to be as poor and 
miserable with a great estate as any man can be without it. According 
to the design of nature, men should eat and drink that they may live 3 
but the voluptuous man only lives that he may eat and drink. Nature, 
in all sensual enjoyments, designs pleasure, which may certainly be had 
within the limits of virtue : but vice rashly pursues pleasure into the 
enemies' quarters, and never stops till the sinner be surrounded, and 
seized upon by pain and torment. 

So that, take away God and religion, and men live to no purpose — 
without proposing any worthy and considerable end of life to them- 
selves. Whereas the fear of God, and the care of our immortal soulsj 



1 68 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Cowley 

fixeth us upon one great design, to which our whole life, and all the 
actions of it, are ultimately referred. "When we acknowledge God," 
says Lactantius, " as the author of our being, as our sovereign, and our 
judge, our end and our happiness is then fixed j" and we can have but 
one reasonable design, and that is, by endeavouring to please God, to 
gain his favour and protection in this world, and to arrive at the blissful 
enjoyment of Him in the other, "In whose presence is fulness of joy, 
and at whose right hand are pleasures for evermore." — Sermojis on 
several Subjects and Occasions. Sermon 28 — Joshua xxiv. 15 — 
Objections against the True Religion Answered. 



64.— OF OBSCURITY. 

[Cowley, 1618 — 1667. 

[Abraham Cowley, the son of a grocer, born in London in 1618, was educated at 
Westminster, and Trinity College, Cambridge. His first volume of poems, entitled 
" Poetic Blossoms," published in 1633, contained "The Tragical History of Pyramus 
and Thisbe/' said to have been written when he was only ten years old. Ejected 
from Cambridge on account of his royalist opinions in 1643, he settled in St. John's 
College, Oxford. Cowley, who was employed by the royal family, accompanied the 
Queen to Paris in 1646. He returned in 1656, when he published an edition of his 
poems, and took the degree of M.D. in Dec. 1657, but did not practise. In 1665 he 
retired to Chertsey, where he died July 28, 1667, and was buried in Westminster 
Abbey, near Chaucer and Spenser. A monument was erected to his memory by 
the Duke of Buckingham in 1675. An edition of his works, with a "Life of 
Cowley/' by Bishop Sprat, was published in 1688. Dr. Johnson (Lives of Poets) 
says : " Cowley, Milton, and Pope might be said to ' lisp in numbers,' and have 
given such early proofs, not only of powers of language, but of comprehension of 
things, as to more tardy minds seems scarcely credible." And in another part ot his 
memoir. Dr. Johnson remarks : " He was in his own time considered as of unrivalled 
excellence." Clarendon represents him as having taken a flight beyond all that 
went before him; and Milton is said to have declared that the three greatest 
English poets were Spenser, Shakspeare, and Cowley. With respect to his prose. 
Dr. Johnson says : " His thoughts are natural, and his style has a smooth and placid 
equability, which has never yet obtained its due commendation." Hallam (Lit. 
Hist., pt. iv. ch. 7), remarks : " His few essays may even be reckoned among the 
earliest models of good writing."] 

What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all 
envying, or being envied 5 from receiving or paying all kinds of 
ceremonies ! It is, in my mind, a very delightful pastime for two good 
and agreeable friends to travel up and down together, in places where 
they are by nobody known, nor know anybody. It was the case of 
^neas and his Achates, when they walked invisibly about the fields 
of Carthage 5 Venus herself 

A vail of thickened air around them cast. 

That none might know, or see them, as they passed. 



Cowley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 169 

The common story of Demosthenes' confession, that he had taken 
great pleasure in hearing of a tanker-woman say, as he passed, " This 
is that Demosthenes," is wonderful ridiculous from so solid an orator. 
I myself have often met with that temptation to vanity (if it were 
any) ; but am so far from finding it any pleasure, that it only makes 
me run faster from the place, till I get, as it were, out of sight-shot. 
Democritus relates, and in such a manner as if he gloried in the good 
fortune and commodity of it,, that when he came to Athens, nobody 
there did so much as take notice of him 5 and Epicurus lived there 
very well — that is, lay hid many years in his gardens, so famous since 
that time, with his friend Metrodorus : after whose death, making in 
one of his letters a kind of commemoration of the happiness which 
they two had enjoyed together, he adds at last, that he thought it no 
disparagement to those great felicities of their life, that in the midst of 
the most talked-of and talking country in the world, they had lived so 
long, not only without fame, but almost without being heard oi; and 
yet, within a very few years afterwards, there were never two names of 
men more known,, or more generally celebrated. If we engage into a 
large acquaintance and various familiarities. We set open our gates to 
the invaders of most of our time : we expose our life to a quotidian 
ague of frigid impertinences, which would make a wise man tremble 
to think of. Now, as for being known much by sight, and pointed at, 
I cannot comprehend the honour that lies in that : whatsoever it be, 
every mountebank has it more than the best doctors, and the hangman, 
more than the Lord Chief Justice of a city. Every creature has it, 
both of nature and art, if it be any ways extraordinary. It was as 
often said, "This is that Bucephalus,"* or, "This is that Incitatus,"t 
when they were led prancing through the streets, as " This is that 
Alexander," or " This is that Domitianf" and truly, for the latter, I 
take Incitatus t& have been a mucb more honourable beast than his 
master, and more deserving the consulship' than he the empire. 

I love and commend a true good fame, because it is the shadow of 
virtue ; not that it doth any good to the body which it accompanies, 
but it is an efficacious shadow, and, like that of St. Peter, cures the 
diseases of others. The best kind of glory, no doubt, is that which is 
reflected from honesty, such as was the glory of Cato and Aristides j 
but it was harmful to them both, and- is seldom beneficial to any man 
whilst he lives. What it is to him after his dfeath, I cannot say, 
because 1 love not philosophy merely notional and conjectural ; and no 
man who has made the experiment has been so kind as to come back 



* The name of one of Alexander's horses, f The name of one of Domitian's horses; 



I70 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Morier 

to inform us. Upon the whole matter, I account a person who has a 
moderate mind and fortune, and lives in the conversation of two oi 
three agreeable friends, with little commerce in the world besides, who 
is esteemed well enough by his neighbours that know him, and is truly 
irreproachable by anybody ,j and so^ after a healthful quiet life, before 
the great inconveniences of old age, goes more silently out of it than 
he came in (for I would not have him so much as cry in the exit) j 
this innocent deceiver of the world, as Horace calls him, this " muta 
persona," I take to have been more happy in his part than the 
greatest actors that fill the stage with show and noise — nay, even than 
Augustus himself, who asked with his last breath whether he had not 
played his farce very well. — Several Discourses., by way of Essays, in 
Ferse and Prose, Book iii. 



65.— THE BARBER OF BAGDAD. 

[Morier, 1780 — 1849. 

[James Morier, born in 1780, published an account of a tour in the East, entitled "A 
Journey through Persia, Armenia, and Asia Minor to Constantinople in 1808-9," in 
1812. Appointed Secretary to SirGore Ouseley, Bart., the British Ambassador to Persia 
in 18 10, he published " A Second Journey through Persia to Constantinople between 
the years 1810-6," &c., in 1818. His first work of fiction, *'The Adventures of Hajji 
Baba of Ispahan," published in 1824, was followed by " The Adventures of Hajji Baba 
of Ispahan in England" in 1828. Morier, who wrote some other novels, amongst 
which " Zohrab, the Hostage," published in 1832, and " Ayesha, the Maid of Kars," 
published in 1834, are the best known, died at Brighton March 30, 1849.] 

In the reign of the Caliph Haroun al Rashid, of happy memory, 
lived in the city of Bagdad a celebrated barber, of the name of All 
Sakal. He was so famous for a steady hand, and dexterity in his pro- 
fession, tl.at he <:ould shave a head, and trim a beard and whiskers, 
with his eyes blind-folded, without once drawing blood. There was 
not a man of any fashion at Bagdad who did not employ him 3 and 
such a run of business had he, that at length he became proud and 
insolent, and would scarcely ever touch a head whose master was not 
at least a Beg or an .Aga. Wood for fuel was always scarce and dear 
at Bagdad ; and, as his shop consumed a great deal, the wood-cutters 
brought their loads to him in preference, almost sure of meeting with 
a ready sale. It happened one day, that a poor wood-cutter, new in 
his profession, and ignorant of the character of Ali Sakal, went to his 
shop, and offered him for sale a load of wood, which he had just 
brought from a considerable distance in the country, on his ass. Ali 
immediately offered him a price, making use of these words, " For all 
the wood that was upon the ass.'' The wood-cutter agreed, unloaded 



Morier.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 171 

his beast, and asked for the money. *' You have not given me all the 
wood yet," said the barber j '' I must have the pack-saddle (which is 
chiefly made of wood) into the bargain : that was our agreement." 
"How!" said the other, in great amazement,; "who ever heard of 
such a bargain ? It is impossible." In short, after many words and 
much altercation, the overbearing barber seized the pack-saddle, wood 
and all, and sent away the poor peasant in great distress. He im- 
mediately ran to the cadi, and stated his griefs : the cadi was one of 
the barber's customers, and refused to hear the case. The wood- 
cutter went to a higher judge ; he also patronized Ali Sakal, and made 
light of the complaint. The poor man then appealed to the mufti 
himself 3 who, having pondered over the question, at length settled, 
tliat it was too difficult a case for him to decide, no provision being 
made for it in the Koran ; and therefore he must put up with his 
loss. The wood-cutter was not disheartened ; but forthwith got a scribe 
to write a petition to the caliph himself, which he duly presented on 
Friday, the day when he went in state to the mosque. The caliph's 
punctuality in reading petitions is well-known, and it was not long 
before the wood-cutter was called to his presence. When he had 
approached the caliph, he kneeled and kissed the ground .3 and then 
placing his arms straight before him, his hands covered with the sleeves 
of his cloak, and his feet close together, he awaited the decision of his 
case. " Friend," said the caliph, " the barber has words on his side — 
you have equity on yours. The law must be defined by words, and 
agreements must be made by words : the former must have its course, 
or it is nothing.3 and agreements must be kept, or there would be no 
faith between man and man 3 therefore the barber must keep all his 

wood 3 but " Then calling the wood-cutter close to him, the 

caliph whispered something in his ear, which none but he could hear, 
and then sent him away quite satisfied. 

Here then I made a pause in my narrative, and said (whilst I 
extended a small tin cup which I held in my hand), " Now, my noble 
audience, if you will give me something, I will tell you what the 
caliph said to the wood-cutter." I had excited great curiosity, and 
there was scarcely one of my hearers who did not give me a piece of 
money. 

"Well then," said I, "the caliph whispered to the wood-cutter 
what he was to do, in order to get satisfaction from the barber, and 
what that was I will now relate. The wood-cutter having made his 
obeisances, returned to his ass, which was tied without, took it by the 
halter, and proceeded to his home. A few days after, he applied to 
the barber, as if nothing had happened between them, requesting that 
he, and a companion of his from the country, might enjoy the dexterity 



172 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Schiller. 

of his hand j and the price at which both operations were to be per- 
formed was settled. When the wood-cutter's crown had been 
properly shorn, Ali Sakal asked where his companion was. " He is 
just standing without here," said the other, "and he shall come in 
presently." Accordingly he went out, and returned, leading his ass 
after him by the halter. '' This is my companion," said he, " and you 
must shave him." *^ Shave him!" exclaimed the barber, in the 
greatest surprise; "it is enough that I have consented to demean 
myself by touching you, and do you insult me by asking me to do as 
much to your ass ? Away with you, or I'll send you both to Jehanum ;" 
and forthwith drove them out of his shop». 

The wood-cutter immediately went to the caliph, was admitted to 
his presence, and related his case.- " 'Tis well," said the commander 
of the feithful : " bring Ali Sakal and his razors to me this instant," he 
exclaimed to one of his officers ; and in. the couxse of ten minutes the 
barber stood; before him. " Why do you refuse to shave this man's 
companion?" said the caliph to the barber;, "was not that your 
agreement ?" Ali, kissing the ground, answered, "'Tis true, O 
caliph, that such was our agreement ; but who ever made a companion 
of an ass before ^ or who ever before thought of treating it like a 
true believer?" "You may say right," said the caliph; "but, at the 
same time, who ever thought of insisting upon a pack-saddle being 
included in a load of wood ? No, no, it is the wood-cutter's turn 
now. To the ass immediately, or you know the consequences." The 
barber was then obliged to prepare a great quantity of soap, to lather 
the beast from head to foot, and to shave him in the presence of the 
caliph, and> of the whole court, whilst he was jeered and mocked by 
the taunts and laughing of all the bystanders. The poor wood-cutter 
was then dismissed with an appropriate present of money, and all 
Bagdad resounded with the story, and celebrated the justice of the 
commander of the faithfuL — The Adventures of Hajji Baba of 
m, voL i.. ch. xiii. 



66.— THE CHARACTER OF WALLENSTEIN. 

[Schiller, 1759 — 1805. 

[Friedrich Schiller, born at Marbach, on the banks of the Neckar, November 
10, 1759, was enrolled as a student of law at Stuttgardt in 1773. This profession he 
exchanged for that of medicine in 1775, and took his degree in 1780. His mind 
was, however, directed to literature, and he published "The Robbers" in 1781. The 
drama was produced with great success at Mannheim in 1782. He wrote numerous 
dramas and poems, and was appointed Professor of History at Jena in 1789, where 
he composed "The History of the Thirty Years' War," The tragedy of " Wallen- 
stein" was published in 1799; "Maria Stuart" appeared in 1800, and "William 



Schiller.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 173 

Tell" in 1804. A collected edition of his prose and poetical works, translated into 
English, appeared in the Standard Library of Mr. Bohn, who remarks in the pre- 
face : " Schiller undoubtedly ranks as the greatest genius of Germany. Equally cele- 
brated as a poet, philosopher, and historian, he essayed every species of literary 
composition, and excelled in all. His works bear the unequivocal impress of a master 
mind." He died May 9, 1805, at Weimar, to which place he had retired on quitting 
Jena in 1799. His life, by Thomas Carlyle, appeared in 1825, and Palleske's 
Memoir, translated by Lady Wallace, in 1859.] 

Thus did Wallen stein/' at the age of fifty, terminate his active and 
extraordinary hfe. To ambition he owed both his greatness and his 
ruin ; with all his failings, he possessed great and admirable qualities, 
and, had he kept himself within due bounds, he would have lived and 
died without an equal. The virtues of the ruler and the hero, pru- 
dence, justice, firmness, and courage, are strikingly prominent features 
in his character ; but he wanted the gentler virtues of the man, which 
adorn the hero, and make the ruler beloved. Terror was the talisman 
with which he worked ; extreme in his punishments as in his rewards, 
he knew how to keep alive the zeal of his followers, while no general 
of ancient or modern times could boast of being obeyed with equal 
alacrity. Submission to his will was more prized by him than bravery ; 
for, if the soldiers work by the latter, it is on the former that the 
general depends. He continually kept up the obedience of his troops 
by capricious orders, and profusely rewarded the readiness to obey even 
in trifles ; because he looked rather to the act itself than its object. 
He once issued a decree, with the penalty of death on disobedience, 
that none but red sashes should be worn in the army. A captain of 
horse no sooner heard the order, than pulling off his gold-embroidered 
sash, he trampled it under foot ; Wallenstein, on being informed of 
the circumstance, promoted him on the spot to the rank of colonel. 
His comprehensive glance was always directed to the whole, and in all 
his apparent caprice, he steadily kept in view some general scope or 
bearing. The robberies committed by the soldiers in a friendly 
country, had led to the severest orders against marauders ; and all who 
should be caught thieving were threatened with the halter. Wallen- 
stein himself having met a straggler in the open country upon the 
field, commanded him to be seized without trial, as a transgressor of 
the law, and in his usual voice of thunder, exclaimed, " Hang the 



* Albrecht Wensel Eusebius, Duke of Mecklenburg and Count of Waldstein, com- 
monly called Wallenstein, was put to death at the Castle of Eger, February 25, 1634, 
by a band of soldiers, ordered by the Emperor Ferdinand IL to take him dead or alive. 
This great general, who distinguished himself against Gustavus Adolphus during the 
Thirty Years' War, fell a victim to the treachery of Piccolomini and others, who repre- 
sented to the Emperor that he had conspired against him. 



174 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Schiller. 

fellow," against which no opposition ever availed. The soldier pleaded 
and proved his innocence, but the irrevocable sentence had gone forth. 
*' Hang then innocent," cried the inexorable Wallenstein, "the guilty 
will have then more reason to tremble." Preparations were already 
making to execute the sentence, when the soldier, who gave himself 
up for lost, formed the desperate resolution of not dying without 
revenge. He fell furiously upon his judge, but was overpowered by 
numbers, and disarmed before he could fulfil his design. " Now let 
him go," said the Duke, *'it will excite sufficient terror." 

His munificence was supported by an immense income, which was 
estimated at three millions of florins yearly, without reckoning the 
enormous sums which he raised under the name of contributions. His 
liberality and clearness of understanding raised him above the religious 
prejudices of his age : and the Jesuits never forgave him for having 
seen through their system, and for regarding the Pope as nothing more 
than a Bishop of Rome. 

But as no one ever yet came to a fortunate end who quarrelled with 
the church, Wallenstein also must pugment the number of its victims. 
Through the intrigues of the monks he lost, at Ratisbon, the command 
of the army, and at Egra his life j by the same arts, perhaps, he lost 
what was of more consequence, his honourable name and good repute 
with posterity. 

For in justice it must be admitted that the pens which have traced 
the history of this extraordinary man are not untinged with partiality, 
and that the treachery of the Duke, and his designs upon the throne of 
Bohemia, rest not so much upon proven facts as upon probable con- 
jecture. No documents have yet been brought to light which disclose 
with historical certainty the secret motives of his conduct -, and among 
all his public and well-attested actions there is, perhaps, not one which 
could not have had an innocent end. Many of his most obnoxious 
measures proved nothing but the earnest wish he entertained for peace ; 
most of the others are explained and justified by the well-founded dis- 
trust he entertained of the Emperor, and the excusable wish of main- 
taining his own importance. It is true, that his conduct towards the 
Elector of Bavaria, and the dictates of an implacable spirit, look too 
like an unworthy revenge ; but still, none of his actions perhaps 
warrant us in holding his treason proved. If necessity and despair at 
last forced him to deserve the sentence which had been pronounced 
against him while innocent, still this, if true, will not justify that sen- 
tence. Thus Wallenstein fell, not because he was a rebel, but he be- 
came a rebel because he fell. Unfortunate in life, that he made a 
victorious party his enemy, and still more unfortunate in death, that 
the same party survived him and wrote his history. — History of the 
Thirty Years' War, Book iv. 



Belzoni.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 175 



67.— THE PYRAMIDS. 

[Belzoni, 1778 — 1823. 
[Giovanni Battista Belzoni, the son of a barber, was born at Padua in 1778, and 
educated at Rome for the priesthood. Showing little inclination for the sacred calling, 
he quitted Rome in 1800, and visited other parts of Europe, arriving in England in 
1803. In this country, where he took a wife and resided some years, he obtained a 
livelihood by exhibiting feats of strength at the theatres. He repaired to Egypt in 
1815 for the purpose of constructing an hydraulic machine for Mehemet Ali, but was 
compelled to abandon the work on account of the opposition of the people. At the 
suggestion of Mr. Burckhardt, Mr. Salt employed Belzoni to remove the colossal 
bust then recently discovered at Thebes. This task he accomplished, and, under the 
auspices of Mr. Salt, he made a second journey into Egypt and Nubia in 181 7, and 
discovered some important ruins at Carnac. Belzoni quitted Egypt in 18 19, having 
explored in various directions, and, on his arrival in England in 1820, published a 
narrative of his discoveries. He opened an exhibition of his Egyptian antiquities in 
London in 1821, and set off for Africa in 1823, intending to proceed to Timbuctoo, 
but fell a victim to dysentery at Gato, in Benin, December 3, 1823.] 

So much has been already said about the pyramids, that very little is 
left to observe respecting them. Their great appearance of antiquity 
certainly leads us to suppose, that they must have been constructed at 
an earlier period than any other edifices to be seen in Egypt. It is 
somewhat singular that Homer does not mention them 3 but this is no 
proof that they did not exist in his time : on the contrary, it may be 
supposed they were so generally known that he thought it useless to 
speak of them. It appears that in the time of Herodotus, as little was 
known of the second pyramid as before the late opening/^ with this 
exception, that in his time the second pyramid was nearly in the state 
in which it was left when closed by the builders, who must have 
covered the entrance with the coating so that it might not be perceived. 
But at the time I was fortunate enough to find my way into it, the 
entrance was concealed by the rubbish of the coating, which must 
have been nearly perfect at the time of Herodotus : notwithstanding 
this, we were as much in the dark in this present age as he was in his. 
We know, however, now, that it has been opened by some of the 
rulers or chiefs of Egypt — a fact that affords no small satisfaction to 
the inquirer on the subject of these monuments. Some persons, who 
would rather let this circumstance remain in obscurity, regretted that I 
should have found the inscription on the wall, which proved it to have 
been opened at so late a period as very little more than a thousand 
years ago ; but I beg them to recollect that the present opening has 



* Belzoni, in 1817, succeeded in opening the Pyramid of Cephren. With the 
Chevalier Frediani, he explored the interior, and discovered the sarcophagus in the great 
chamber. 



176 THE EVERY- DAY BOOK [Belzont. 

• • — ■ ■ 

not only made known this very interesting circumstance, but has 
thrown much light on the manner in which these enormous masses 
were erected^ as well as explained the purposes for which they were 
made. 

The circumstance of having chambers and a sarcophagus (which un- 
doubtedly contained the remains of some great personage), so uniform 
with those in the other pyramid, I think leaves very little question but 
that they were erected as sepulchres j and I really wonder that any 
doubt has ever existed, considering what could be learned from the 
first pyramid, which has been so long open. This contains a spacious 
chamber with a sarcophagus j the passages are of such dimensions as 
to admit nothing larger than the sarcophagus ; they had been closely 
shut up by large blocks of granite from within, evidently to prevent 
the removal of that relic. Ancient authors are pretty well agreed in 
asserting that these monuments were erected to contain the remains of 
two brothers, Cheops and Cephren, kings of Egypt. They are sur- 
rounded by other smaller pyramids, intermixed with mausoleums on 
burial grounds. Many mummy-pits have been continually found there -, 
yet with all these proofs, it has been asserted that they were erected 
for many other purposes than the true one, and nearly as absurd as that 
they served for granaries. 

Some consider them as built for astronomical purposes, but there is 
nothing in their construction to favour this supposition. Others main- 
tain that they were meant for the performance of holy ceremonies by 
the Egyptian priests. Anything, in short, for the sake of contradiction, 
or to have something new to say, finds its advocate. If the ancient 
authors had advanced that they were erected for treasuries, the moderns 
would have agreed perhaps more in conformity with the truth, that 
they were made for sepulchres j and they would not have failed to see 
plainly these circumstances, which clearly prove the facts, and which 
are not noticed as they ought to be. 1 will agree with others thus far, 
that the Egyptians, in erecting these enormous masses, did not fail to 
make their sides due north and south, and consequently, as they are 
square, due east and west. Their inclination, too, is such as to give 
light to the north side at the time of the solstice. But even all this 
does not prove in the least that they were erected for astronomical 
purposes, though it is to be observed that the Egyptians connected 
astronomy with their religious ceremonies, as we found various zodiacs 
not only among the temples, but in their tombs also. — Narrative of 
the Operations and Recent Researches in Egypt and Nubia. Second 
Journey. 



Howell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 177 



68.— A LOVER'S HEART SERVED UP AS A DISH. 

[Howell, 1594 — 1666. 

[James Howell, born near Brecknock about 1594, was educated at Jesus College, 
Oxford. He was appointed manager of a patent glass manufactory in London, and 
travelled on the continent from 1619 to 1621, in which year he was elected a fellow 
of Jesus College. He became secretary to Lord Scrope in 1626, secretary to an 
extraordinary embassy to Denmark in 1632, and having filled various appointments, 
obtained the clerkship of the Council at Whitehall in 1640. Howell, sent to the 
Fleet in 1643, was liberated soon after the execution of Charles L, and at the 
Restoration was appointed historiographer royal. He died Nov. 1666, and was 
buried in the Temple Church. Howell was a prolific writer. His best known 
works are " Dendrologia, Dodona's Grove, or the Vocal Forest," a poem pub- 
lished in 1640, and the " Epistolae Ho-Elianae: Familiar Letters, Domestic and 
Foreign, &c." of which the first volume appeared in 1645, and the second in 1655.] 

Being''^ lately in France, and returning in a coach from Paris to 
Rouen, I lighted upon the society of a knowing gentleman, who re- 
lated to me a choice story, which, peradventure^ you may make some 
use of in your way. . 

Some hundred and odd years since, there was in France one 
Captain Coucy, a gallant gentleman of an ancient extraction, and 
keeper of Coucy Castle, which is yet standing, and in good repair. 
He fell in love with a young gentlewoman, and courted her for his 
wife. There was reciprocal love between them, but her parents 
understanding of it, by way of prevention, they shuffled up a forced 
match 'twixt her and one Monsieur Fayel, who was a great heir. 
Captain Coucy hereupon quitted France in discontent, and went to 
the wars in Hungary against the Turks, where he received a mortal 
wound, not far from Buda. Being carried to his lodgings, he 
languished some days ; but a little before his death he spoke to an 
ancient servant of his, that he had many proofs of his fidelity and 
truth, but now he had a great business to entrust him with, which he 
conjured him by all means to do ; which was, that after his death he 
should get his body to be opened, and then to take his heart out of 
his breast, and put it in an earthen pot to be baked to powder j then 
to put the powder into a handsome box, with that bracelet of hair he 
had worn long about his wrist, which was a lock of Mademoiselle 
Fayel's hair, and put it among the powder, together with a little note 
he had written with his own blood to her 5 and after he had given 
him the rites of burial, to make all the speed he could to France, and 
deliver the said box to Mademoiselle Fayel. The old servant did as 



This letter, addressed to Ben Jonson, is dated Westminster, May 3, 163: 



178 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ford. 

his master had commanded him, and so went to France ; and coming 
one day to Mons. Fayel's house, he suddenly met him with one of his 
servants, and examined him, because he knew he was Captain Coucy's 
servautj and, finding him timorous and fakering in his speech, he 
searched him and found the said box in his pocket, with the note 
which expressed what was therein : he dismissed the bearer with 
menaces that he should come no more near his house. Mons. Fayel 
going in, sent for his cook, and delivered him the powder, charging 
him to make a httle well-rehshed dish of it, without losing a jot of it, 
for it was a very costly thing, and commanded him to bring it in him- 
self after the last course at supper. The cook bringing in the dish 
accordingly, Mons. Fayel commanded all to avoid the room, and began 
a serious discourse with his wife ; however, since he had married her, he 
observed she was always melancholy, and he feared she was inclining to 
a consumption^ therefore he had provided her with a very precious cor- 
dial, which he was well assured would cure her : thereupon he made 
her eat up the whole dishj and afterwards much importuning him to 
know what it was, he told her at last, she had eaten Coucy's heart, and 
so drew the box out of his pocket and showed her the note and the 
bracelet. In a sudden exultation of joy she, with a far-fetched sigh, 
said, this is a precious cordial indeed j and so licked the dish, saying, it 
is so precious, that 'tis pity to put ever any meat upon it. So she 
went to bed, and in the morning she was found stone dead. 

This gentleman told me that this sad story is painted in Coucy 
Castle, and remains fresh to this day. — Familiar Letters, Book i, lect. 6, 
letter 20. 



69.— THE MUSICAL CONTEST. 

[Ford, 1586 — 1639. 

[John Ford, born at Ilsington, Devon, in 1586, became a menmber of the Middle 
Temple November 16, 1602, and attained certain success in his profession. 
"Fame's Memorial," an elegy on the death of the Earl of Devonshire, his first 
poetical production, appeared in 1606. According to the practice of that time. 
Ford assisted Webster, Decker, and others in the com))osition of plays. His first 
dramatic production, "The Lover's Melancholy," was acted Nov. 24, 1628, and 
printed in 1629. "The Broken Heart " and " Love's Sacrifice," appeii red in 1633, 
"The Chronicle History of Perkin Warbeck " in 1634, the comedy of "The P'ancies 
Chaste and Noble" in 1638, and the comedy of " The Ladies' Trial" in 1630. In 
conjunction with Decker, he wrote "The Sun's Darling," a moral mas(|ue, })rinted 
in 1657. His dramatic works, with exj)lanatory notes, were edited by Gifibrd in 
1827. Another edition, with a biography, by Hartley Coleridge, a})peared in 1840. 
It is supposed that about 1639 Ford retired to his native place, where he soon after 
dieil. Gifl(:)rd says, " The style of Ford is altogether original, and his own. With- 
out the majestic march which distinguishes the poetry of Massinger, and with little 
or none of that light and playful humour which characterises the dialogue of 



Ford. J OF MODERN LITERATURE, 179 

Fletcher, or even of Shirley, he is yet elegant, and easy, and harmonious, and though 
rarely sublime, yet sufficiently elevated for the most pathetic tones of that passion 
on whose romantic energies he chiefly delighted to dwell."] 

Scene. — ^The Palace at Famagosta. Amethus and Menaphon 

discoursing. 
Men. : A jewel, my Amethus, a fair youth ; 

A youth, whom, if I were but superstitious, 

I should repute an excellence more high. 

Than mere creations are : to add delight, 

I'll tell you how I found him. 
Amet. : Prithee do. 
Men. : Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales 

Which poets of an elder time have feigned 

To glorify their Temple, bred in me. 

Desire of visiting that paradise. 

To Thessaly I came j and living private. 

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions. 

Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 

I day by day frequented silent groves. 

And solitary walks. One morning early 

This accident encountered me : I heard 

The sweetest and most ravishing contention. 

That art [and] nature ever were at strife in. 
Amet. : I cannot yet conceive, what you infer 

By art and nature. 
Men, : I shall soon resolve you. 

A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather 

Indeed, entranced my soul : as I stole nearer. 

Invited by the melody, I saw 

This youth, this fair faced youth, upon his lute. 

With strains of strange variety and harmony. 

Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge 

To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds. 

That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent, 

Wond'ring at what they heard. I wondered too. 

Amet. : And so do I j good ! on 

Men. : A nightingale. 

Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes 

The challenge, and for every several strain 

The well shaped youth could touch, she sung her own ; 

He could not run division with more art 

Upon his quaking instrument, than she. 

The nightingale, did with her various notes 
N 2 



i8o 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Ford. 



Reply to : for a voice, and for a sound, 

Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe 

That such they were, than hope to hear again. 

Amet. : How did the rivals part ? 

Men. : You term them rightly ; 

For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. — 

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last 

Into a pretty anger, that a bird 

V/hom art had never taught cliffs,^ moods, or notes. 

Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 

Had busied many hours to perfect practice : 

To end the controversy, in a rapture 

Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly. 

So many voluntaries, and so quick. 

That there was curios. ty and cunning. 

Concord in discord, lines of differing method 

Meeting in one full centre of delight. 

Amet. : Now for the bird. 

Men. : The bird, ordained to be 

Music's first martyr, strove to imitate 

These several sounds : which, when her warbling throat 

Failed in, for grief, down dropped she on his lute. 

And brake her heart ! It was the quaintest sadness. 

To see the conqueror upon her hearse. 

To weep a funeral elegy of tears 5 

That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide 

Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me 

A fellow-mourner with him. 

Amet. . I beheve thee. 

Men. : He looked upon the trophies of his art. 

Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried : 

" Alas poor creature ! I will soon revenge 

*' This cruelty upon the author of it ; 

" Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 

" Shall never more betray a harmless peace 

" To an untimely end :" and in that sorrow. 

As he was pashing it againstf a tree, 

I suddenly stept in. 

Amet. : Thou hast discoursed 

A truth of mirth and pity. 

— The Lover s Melancholy , Act i. Scene 1. 



* A term in music. 



t i.e., dashing in pieces. 



Hooker.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 



70.— GOD'S LAW MANIFESTED BY CREATION. 

[Hooker, 1553 — 1600. 

[Richard Hooker was born at Heavytree, near Exeter, in 1553, and was educated at 
Corpus Christ! College, Oxford. He was appointed Lecturer on Hebrew in the Uni- 
versity in 1579, and Master of the Temple in 1585. Anxious to obtain leisure to 
complete his great work on "The Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity," he applied to 
Whitgift, who conferred upon him the living of Boscombe, in Wiltshire, in 1591, and 
he was made a prebendary of Salisbury in the same year. The first four books of " The 
Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity" appeared in 1594; the fifth, in 1597; and the sixth, 
seventh, and eighth books did not appear until 1647, nearly half a century after his 
death, which took place Nov. 2, 1600, at Bishopsbourne, Kent, to which living he 
had been presented by Queen Elizabeth, July 7, 1595. Hallam (" Lit. Hist.," pt. ii., 
ch. i.) speaks of the Ecclesiastical Polity as " A monument of real learning, in pro- 
fane as well as theological antiquity." In the seventeenth century Hooker received the 
surname of Judicious. His life, written by Isaac Walton, was published in 1670.] 

Wherefore to come to the law of nature : albeit thereby we some- 
tunes mean that manner of working which God hath set for each 
created thing to keep 3 yet forasmuch as those things are termed 
most properly natural agents, which keep the law of their kind un- 
wittingly, as the heavens and elements of the world, which can do no 
otherwise than they do ; and forasmuch as we give unto intellectual 
natures the name of Voluntary Agents, that so we may distinguish 
them from the other; expedient it will be, that we sever the law of 
nature observed by the one from that which the oth'^r' is tied unto. 
Touching the former, their strict keeping of one tenure, statute, and 
law, is spoken of by all, but hath in it more than men have as yet 
attained to know, or perhaps ever shall attain, seeing the travail of 
wading herein is given of God to the sons of men 3* that perceiving 
how much the least thing in the world hath in it more than the wisest 
are able to reach unto, they may by this means learn humility. 
Moses, in describing the work of creation, attributeth speech unto 
God : " God said, let there be light : let there be a firmament : let 
the waters under the heaven be gathered together into one place : let 
the earth bring forth : let there be lights in the firmament of heaven." 
Was this only the intent of Moses, to signify the infinite greatness of 
God's power by the easiness of His accomplishing such efirects, without 
travail, pain, or labour ? Surely it seemeth that Moses had herein 
besides this a further purpose, namely, first to teach that God did not 
work as a necessary but a voluntary agent, intending beforehand and 
decreeing with Himself that which did outwardly proceed from Him : 



i 



* Eccles. iii. 9, 10. See Bacon's Advancement of Learning, bk. ii., "Knowledges 
are as pyramids, whereof history is the basis," &c., &c. 



i82 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK tHooker. 

secondly, to show that God did then institute a law natural to be ob- 
served by creatures, and therefore according to the manner of laws, the 
institution thereof is described as being established by solemn injunc- 
tion. His commanding those things to be which are, and to be in 
such sort as they are, to keep that tenure and course which they do, 
importeth the establishment of nature's law. This world's first crea- 
tion, and the preservation since of things created, what is it but only 
so far forth a manifestation by execution, what the eternal law of God 
is concerning things natural ? And as it cometh to pass in a kingdom 
rightly ordered, that after a law is once published, it presently takes 
effect far and wide, all states framing themselves thereunto j even so 
let us think it fareth in the natural course of the world : since the 
time that God did first proclaim the edicts of His law upon it, 
heaven and earth have hearkened unto His voice, and their labour 
hath been to do His will: "He made a law for the rainj"* He 
gave his " decree unto the sea, that the waters should not pass 
his commandment." t Now if nature should intermit her course, 
and leave altogether, though it were but for a while, the obser- 
vation of her own laws ; it those principal and mother elements of 
the world, whereof all things in this lower world are made, should 
lose the qualities which now they have ; if the frame of that heavenly 
arch erected over our heads should loosen and dissolve itself 3 if celes- 
tial spheres should forget their wonted motions, and by irregular 
volubility turn themselves any way as it might happen 3 if the prince 
of the lights of heaven, which now as a giant doth run his unwearied 
course,! should, as it were, through a languishing faintness begin to 
stand and to rest himself 5 if the moon should wander from her beaten 
way, the times and seasons of the year blend themselves by disordered 
and confused mixture, the winds breathe out their last gasp, the clouds 
yield no rain, the earth be defeated of heavenly influence, the fruits of 
the earth pine away as children at the withered breasts of their 
mother, no longer able to yield them relief: what would become of 
man himself, whom these things now do all serve? See we not 
plainly that obedience of creatures unto the law of nature is the stay 
of the whole world ? — Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, bk. i. 
ch. iii. § 2. 

* Job xxviii. 26. f Jer. v. 22. % Psalm xix. 5. 



Raleigh.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 183 



71.— ON TYRANNY AND THE EMPLOYMENT OF MERCENARIES BY 

TYRANTS. 

[Sir W. Raleigh, 1552 — 1618. 

[Walter Raleigh, born at Hayes, near Budleigh, in Devonshire, in 1552, entered 
Onel College, Oxford, in 1568, went as a volunteer to France in 1569, and served in 
the continental wars for several years. Received with favour at Court, he was knighted, 
and took part in expeditions for planting colonies in North America. Raleigh dis- 
tinguished himself in various engagements with the Spanish Armada in 1588. In 
1595 he sailed in search of the fabulous El Dorado, and having made some con- 
quests in South America, on his return in 1595 published an account of his voyage, 
under the title "The Discovery of the Large, Rich, and Beautiful Empire of 
Guiana." He distinguished himself at the capture of Cadiz in 1596, and took 
Fayal in 1597; but on the death of Elizabeth he fell out of favour, and was tried for 
high treason at Winchester, and found guilty in September, 160,^. Though re- 
prieved, he remained a prisoner in the Tower thirteen years, during which time he 
wrote the fragment of "The History of the World," published in 1614. Having 
obtained his release, he sailed for Guiana in 161 7, and on his return to England 
in July, 1618, was arrested at the instigation of the Spaniards, whose possessions in 
the new world he had assailed. On the 28th of October, 1618, the sentence was 
passed upon him, and he was beheaded, Oct. 29. Hallam remarks (" Lit. Hist.," 
pt. iii. ch. 7), " We should expect from the prison hours of a soldier, a courtier, a 
busy intriguer in state affairs, a poet and man of genius, something well worth our 
notice, but hardly a prolix history of the ancient world, hardly disquisitions 
on the sites of Paradise and the travels of Cain." Sir W. Raleigh's biography has 
been written by several authors. His Life, by Oldys, appealed in 17355 by T. 
Birch, in 1751; by A. Cayley, in 1805; by Mrs. Thompson, in 1830: by P. F. 
Tytler, in 1833; by M. Napier, in 1853; and by C. Whitehead, in 1854. The 
" Edinburgh Review," vol. Ixxi. contains an article on Sir Walter Raleigh, and a bio- 
graphy is given by Wood in his " Athen. Oxon."] 

That which we properly call tyranny is a violent form of governraentj 
not respecting the good of the subject, but only the pleasure of the 
comniander, I purposely forbear to say, that it is the unjust rule of 
one over many : for very truly doth Cleon, in Thucydides,* tell the 
Athenians, that their dominion over their subjects was none other than 
a mere tyranny -, though it were so, that they themselves were a great 
city, and a popular estate. Neither is it peradventure greatly 
needful, that I should call this form of commanding violent j since it 
may well and easily be conceived, that no man willingly performs 
obedience to one regardless of his life and welfare, unless himself be 
either a madman, or (which is little better) wholly possessed with 
some extreme passion of love. 

The practice of tyranny is not always of a like extremity ; for some 
lords are more gentle than others to their very slaves 5 and he that is 
most cruel to some is mild enough towards others, though it be but for 



* Book 



i84 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Raleigh. 

his own advantage. Nevertheless, in large dominions, wherein the 
ruler's discretion cannot extend itself unto notice of the ditference 
which might be found between the worth of several men ; it is 
commonly seen that the taste of sweetness, drawn out of oppression, 
hath so good a relish, as continually inflames the tyrant's appetite, and 
will not suffer it to be restrained within any limits of respect. Why 
should he seek out bounds to prescribe unto his desires, who cannot 
endure the face of one so honest, as may put him in remembrance of 
any moderation ? It is much that he hath gotten by extorting from 
some few ; by sparing none, he should have riches in goodly abun- 
dance : he hath taken a good deal from every one ; but every one 
could have spared more : he hath wrung all their purses, and now he 
hath enough ; but (as covetousness is never satisfied) he thinks that all 
this is too little for a stock, though it were indeed a good yearly 
income. Therefore he deviseth new tricks of robbery, and is not 
better pleased with the gains than with the art of getting. He is 
hated for this, and he knows it well ; but he thinks by cruelty to 
change hatred into fear. So he makes it his exercise to torment and 
murder all whom he suspecteth : in which course, if he suspect 
none unjustly, he may be said to deal craftily ; but if innocency be not 
safe, how can all this make any conspirator to stand in fear, since the 
traitor is no worse rewarded than the quiet man ? Wherefore he 
can think upon none other security than to disarm all his subjects, 
to fortify himself within some strong place, and, for defence of his person 
and state, to hire as many lusty soldiers as shall be thought suffi- 
cient. 

These must not be of his own country ; for if not every one, yet some 
one or other might chance to have a feeling of the public misery. 
This considered, he allures unto him a desperate rabble of strangers, 
the most unhonest that can be found ; such as have neither wealth nor 
credit at home, and will therefore be careful to support him by whose 
only favour they are maintained. Now, lest any of these, either by 
detestation of his wickedness, or (which in wicked men is most likely) 
by promise of greater reward than he doth give, should be drawn to 
turn his sword against the tyrant himself, they shall all be permitted 
to do as he doth j to rob, to ravish, to murder, and to satisfy their 
own appetites in most outrageous manner : being thought so much 
the more assured to their master, by how much the more he sees 
them grow hateful to all men else. Considering in what age and in 
what language I write, I must be fain to say that these are not dreams j 
though some Englishmen, perhaps, that were unacquainted with 
history, lighting upon this leaf, might suppose this discourse to be 



Ainsworth.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 185 

little better. This is to show both how tyranny grows to stand in 
need of mercenary soldiers, and how those mercenaries are, by mutual 
obligation, firmly assured unto the tyrant. — The History of the Worlds 
Book V. ch. ii. sect. ii. § i. 



72.— OLD LONDON FROM OLD ST. PAUL'S. 

[Ainsworth, 1805. 

[William Harrison Ainsworth, born at Manchester, February, 1805, and 
educated for the bar, embraced literature as a profession at an early age. Having 
contributed to several periodicals he published his first novel, " Sir John Chiverton,'* 
in 1825. " Rookwood'^ appeared in 1834, " Crichton" in 1837, ^^d the first chapter 
of "Jack Sheppard" in Bentley's Miscellany" for January, 1839. "Old St. Paul's" 
was published in the " Sunday Times" in 1841. In addition to these works Mr. 
Ainsworth is the author of a large number of historical romances, some of which 
have been translated into various modern languages. He edited " Bentle/s Mis- 
cellany" from 1839 to 1 841, established " Ainsworth's Magazine" in 1842, became 
editor and proprietor of the "New Monthly Magazine" in 1845, ^'^^ again editor and 
proprietor of " Bentley's Miscellany" in 1854. A collected edition of his works has 
been published in a cheap form.] 

Resolved to free himself at any hazard, Leonard Holt once more 
repaired to the summit of the tower of the Cathedral, and, leaning 
over the balustrade, gazed below. It was a sublime spectacle, and, in 
spite of his distress, filled him with admiration and astonishment. He 
had stationed himself on the south side of the tower, and immediately 
beneath him lay the broad roof of the transept, stretching out to a dis- 
tance of nearly two hundred feet. On the right, surrounded by a 
double row of cloisters, remarkable for the beauty of their architecture, 
stood the convocation, or chapter-house. This exquisite building was 
octagonal in form, and supported by large buttresses, ornamented on 
each gradation by crocketed pinnacles. Each side, moreover, had a 
tall pointed window, filled with stained glass, and was richly adorned 
with trefoils and cinquefoils. Further on, on the same side, was the 
small low church dedicated to St. Gregory, overtopped by the south- 
western tower of the mightier parent fane. 

It was not, however, the cathedral itself, but the magnificent view 
it commanded, that chiefly attracted the apprentice's attention. From 
the elevated point on which he stood, his eye ranged over a vast tract 
of country, bounded by the Surrey hills, and at last settled upon the 
river, which in some parts was obscured by a light haze, and in others 
tinged with the ruddy beams of the newly-risen sun. Its surface was 
spotted, even at this early hour, with craft, while innumerable vessels 
of all shapes and sizes were moored to its banks. On the left, he 



186 THE EVERY-BAY BOOK [Ainsworth. 

noted the tall houses covering London Bridge^ and on the right, 
traced the sweeping course of the stream as it flowed from West- 
minster. On this hand, on the opposite bank, lay the flat marshes of 
Lambeth ; while nearer stood the old bull-baiting and bear-baiting 
establishments, the flags above which could be discerned above the 
tops of the surrounding habitations. A little to the left was the 
borough of Southwark, even then a large and populous district — the 
two most prominent features in the scene being Winchester-house, and 
St. Saviour's old and beautiful church. 

Filled with wonder at what he saw, Leonard looked towards the 
east, and here an extraordinary prospect met his gaze. The whole of 
the city of London was spread out like a map before him, and pre- 
sented a dense mass of ancient houses, with twisted chimneys, gables, 
and picturesque roofs — here and there overtopped by a hall, a college, 
an hospital, or some other lofty structure. This vast collection of 
buildings was girded in by grey and mouldering walls, approached by 
seven gates, and intersected by innumerable narrow streets. The spires 
and towers of the churches shot up into the clear morning air — for^ 
except in a few quarters, no smoke yet issued from the chimneys. On 
this side, the view of the city was terminated by the fortifications and 
keep of the Tower. Little did the apprentice think, when he looked 
at the magnificent scene before him, and marvelled at the countless 
buildings he beheld, that, ere fifteen months had elapsed, the whole 
mass, together with the mighty fabric on which he stood, would be 
swept away by a tremendous conflagration. Unable to foresee this 
direful event, and lamenting only that so fair a city should be a prey 
to an exterminating pestilence, he turned towards the north, and 
suffered his gaze to wander over Finsbury-fields, and the hilly ground 
beyond them — over Smithfield and Clerkenwell, and the beautiful 
open country adjoining Gray's-inn-lane. 

So smiling and beautiful did these districts appear, that he could 
scarcely fancy they were the chief haunts of the horrible distemper. 
But he could not blind himself to the fact that in Finsbury-fields, as 
well as in the open country to the north of Holborn, plague-pits had 
been digged and pest-houses erected ; and this consideration threw such 
a gloom over the prospect, that, in order to dispel the effect, he changed 
the scene by looking towards the west. Here his view embraced all 
the proudest mansions of the capital, and tracing the Strand to Charing 
Cross, long since robbed of the beautiful structure from which it 
derived its name, and noticing its numerous noble habitations, his eye 
finally rested upon Whitehall: and he heaved a sigh as he thought 
that the palace of the sovereign was infected by as foul a moral taint 
as the hideous disease that ravaged the dwelhngs of his subjects. 



Rapin.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 187 

At the time that Leonard Holt gazed upon the capital, its pictu- 
resque beauties were nearly at their close. In a little more than a 
year and a quarter afterwards, the greater part of the old city was 
consumed by fire 5 and though it was rebuilt, and in many respects 
improved, its original and picturesque character was entirely de- 
stroyed. 

It seems scarcely possible to conceive a finer view than can be gained 
from the dome of the modern cathedral at sunrise on a May morning, 
when the prospect is not dimmed by the smoke of a hundred thousand 
chimneys — when the river is just beginning to stir with its numerous 
craft, or when they are sleeping on its glistening bosom — when every 
individual house, court, church, square, or theatre, can be discerned — 
when the eye can range over the whole city on each side, and calcu- 
late its vast extent. It seems scarcely possible, we say, to suppose at 
any previous time it could be more striking ', and yet, at the period 
under consideration, it was incomparably more so. Then, every house 
was picturesque, and every street a collection of picturesque objects. 
Then, that which was objectionable in itself, and contributed to the 
insalubrity of the city, namely, the extreme narrowness of the streets, 
and overhanging stories of the houses, was the main source of their 
beauty. Then the huge projecting signs, with their fantastical iron- 
work — the conduits — the crosses (where crosses remained) — the may- 
poles — all were picturesque 3 and as superior to what can now be seen, 
as the attire of Charles the Second's age is to the ugly and disfiguring 
costume of our own dav. — Old Si. Paul's. 



73.— REFLECTIONS ON THE TRIAL OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

[Rapin, 1661 — 1725. 

[Paul de Rapin, Sieur of Thoyras, was born at Castres in 1661, of a Protestant 
family, which came originally from Savoy. He studied at Saumur, and entered the 
profession of the law. Soon after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes (1685), he 
went to Holland and entered the service of William of Orange, whom he accom- 
panied to England in 1688. He settled at Wesel in 1707, and applied himself to the 
composition of his famous work, the " History of England," which took him seven- 
teen years to finish. It appeared in French at the Hague, in 9 vols., in 1726-7. It 
was translated into English by Tindal* in 1732. Rapin died at Wesel, May 
16, 1725.] 

It is hardly to be questioned that Mary's death was determined, when 
Elizabeth and her Council resolved to have her tried by commissioners. 



* Nicholas, nephew of Matthew Tindal, was born in 1687, and educated at Oxford. 
He was appointed chaplain to Greenwich Hospital in 1738, and died June 27, 1774. 



i88 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Rapin. 

But it must not be imagined that it was their intention to punish her 
for attempting the life of EHzabeth. If that had been all, they would 
never have proceeded to extremities, but would, doubtless, have been 
satisfied with putting it out of her power to contrive any such plots 
for the future, which would have been easy, by confining her more 
closely. But it was not so easy to hinder the Pope, the King of Spain, the 
House of Guise, the English catholics, the Irish, the Scottish malcon- 
tents, from considering her as a princess to whom of right belonged the 
two crowns of England and Scotland, and from using their continual 
endeavours to restore her to the throne of Scotland, and place her on that 
of England, even in Elizabeth's life-time. Though she had been so closely 
confined, that she could not herself have been concerned in these plots, it 
would not have prevented her friends from acting in her favour ; 
nothing, therefore, but her death, could break their measures, and put 
an end to the plots which were daily framing on her account. So, it 
might with truth be said, that as Elizabeth's death was Mary's life, so 
Mary's death alone could preserve Elizabeth, and with her, liberty and 
the Protestant religion in England. But as it was not likely Mary, 
who was the younger, should depart first out of this world by a natural 
death, recourse was to be had to violence, that the Queen and the 
realm might be freed from their imminent danger. The share Mary 
had in Babington's conspiracy, and which probably was greater than 
what Camden intimates, was not, therefore, the cause of her con- 
demnation, but the pretence used to be rid of a queen, on whose life 
Elizabeth's adversaries built all their hopes. It was, therefore, Mary's 
own friends that occasioned her misfortune by serving her too zealously, 
or rather by making her their instrument to execute their grand pro- 
ject against the Protestant religion. The Pope flattered himself with 
restoring, by her means, the Catholic religion in England -, and the 
English catholics looked upon her as the only person that could free 
them from the intolerable yoke of a Protestant Government. Philip 
II. saw no other way to subdue the Netherlanders. In short, the 
House of Guise, whose ambitious projects are well known, thought to 
find in her an infallible means to crush the Huguenots of France, who 
supported the title of the lawful heir to the crown of that kingdom. 
Mary herself gave too much countenance to all these plots. She was 
so imprudent, as, being a prisoner incessantly to confound two things, 
which could well be distinguished and separated j I mean, her liberty, 
and her title to the crown of England. She thereby gave Elizabeth 
occasion to confound these two, and to ruin her, in order to preserve 
her own life and crown. 

These were the real motives of Mary's condemnation. If we 
consider them politically, they may be said to be good and necessary j 



Livingstone.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 189 

but it happens very frequently that policy is repugnant to justice and 
equity. Upon this condemnation it is that Elizabeth's enemies have 
triumphed ; and, indeed, it is a very fit subject for rhetoric. But if it 
is considered who they were that exclaimed the loudest against 
Elizabeth, they will be found to be the very persons who would have 
murdered her to set Mary on the throne of England. Had they 
succeeded in their design, would their deed have been more just or 
more agreeable to the precepts of the Christian religion ? Doubtless it 
would, were the thing to be tried by the principle of the adversaries 
to Elizabeth and her religion. But if it were allowed by the laws of 
religion, justice, and equity, to take away the life of Elizabeth, in 
order to set Mary on the throne, and restore the Catholic religion in 
England, was it less allowable for the English to put Mary to death, 
in order to preserve their queen and religion from the destruction they 
were continually threatened with ? Let us say rather, tliese maxims 
are equally blameable and repugnant to the rules of the Gospel, to 
whatever party they are applied. — The History of England. Book xvii. 



74.— LAKE NY ASS A. 

[Livingstone, 1817. 
[David Livingstone, of humble parentage, born at Blantyre, near Glasgow, in 
1817, was in a great measure self-educated. He was admitted a licentiate of the 
faculty of physicians and surgeons in 1838, and offered himself to the London Mis- 
sionary Society for Missionary work in Africa. In 1840 he was ordained, and set 
out for South Africa. Here he laboured until 1856, when he left for England, where 
he arrived Dec. 12. During his sojourn in Africa he went on several exploring ex- 
peditions, and became well acquainted with the interior and many of the savage 
tribes. He is said to have traversed no less than 1 1,000 miles of African territory. 
His "Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa," appeared in 1857. 
Having been appointed British Consul at Quilimane in 1858, Dr. Livingstone again 
left for Africa, explored the Zambesi, made further discoveries, and returned July 20, 
1864. His "Expedition to the Zambesi and its Tributaries," was published in 
November, 1865. Dr. Livingstone has given a short account of his early life in the 
introduction to his " Missionary Travels."] 

Looking back to the southern end of Lake Nyassa, the arm from 
which the Shire flows was found to be thirty miles long, and from ten 
to twelve broad. Rounding Cape Maclear, and looking to the south- 
west, we have another arm which stretches some eighteen miles south- 
ward, and is from six to twelve miles in breadth. These arms give 
the southern end a forked appearance j and with the help of a little 
imagination, it maybe likened to the "boot-shape" of Italy. The 
narrowest part is about the ankle, eighteen or twenty miles. From 



19© THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Livingstone. 

this it widens to the north, and in the upper third or fourth it is fifty 
or sixty miles broad. The length is over 200 miles. The direction 
in which it lies is as near as possible due north and south. Nothing 
of the great bend to the west, shown in all the previous maps, could 
be detected by either compass or chronometer — and the watch we 
used was an excellent one. The season of the year was very un- 
favourable. The *' smokes" filled the air with an impenetrable haze, 
and the equinoctial gales made it impossible for us to cross to the 
eastern side. When we caught a glimpse of the sun rising from 
behind the mountains to the east, we made sketches and bearings of 
them at different latitudes, which enabled us to secure approximate 
measurements of the width. These agreed with the times taken by 
the natives at the different crossing-places — as Tseuga and Molamba. 
About the beginning of the upper third, the lake is crossed by taking 
advantage of the island Chizumara, which name in the native tongue 
means the *' ending;" further north they go round the end instead, 
though that takes several days. 

The lake appeared to be surrounded by mountains, but it was 
afterwards found that these beautiful tree-covered heights were, 
on the west, only the edges of high table-lands. Like all narrow seas 
encircled by highlands, it is visited by sudden and tremendous storms. 
We were on it in September and October, perhaps the stormiest season 
of the year, and were repeatedly detained by gales. At times, while 
sailing over the blue water with a gentle breeze, suddenly and without 
any warning was heard the sound of a coming storm, roaring on with 
crowds of angry waves in its wake. We were caught one morning 
with the sea breaking all around us, and, unable either to advance or 
recede, anchored a mile from shore, in seven fathoms. The furious 
surf on the beach would have shivered our slender boat to atoms, had 
we tried to land. The waves most dreaded came rolling on in threes, 
with their crests, driven into spray, streaming behind them. A short 
lull followed each triple charge. Had one of these white-maned seas 
struck our frail bark, nothing could have saved us ; for they came on 
with resistless force ; seaward, in shore, and on either side of us, they 
broke in foam, but we escaped. For six weary hours we faced these 
terrible trios, any one of which might have been carrying the end of 
our expedition in its hoary head. A low, dark, detached, oddly-shaped 
cloud came slowly from the mountains, and hung for hours directly 
over our heads. A flock of night-jars {cometoriiis vexillarius) , which 
on no other occasion come out by day, soared above us in the gale, 
like birds of evil omen. Our black crew became sea-sick and unable 
to sit up or keep the boat's head to the sea. The natives and our land 
party stood on the high cliffs looking at us and ex.claiming, as the 



Von Humboldt.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 191 

waves seemed to swallow up the boat, " They are lost ! — they are all 
dead!" When at last the gale moderated, and we got safely ashore, 
they saluted as warmly, as after a long absence. From this time we 
trusted implicitly to the opinions of our seaman, John Neil, who, 
baving been a fisherman on ttae coast of Ireland, understood boating 
on a stormy coast, and by his advice we often sat cowering on the land 
for days together waiting for the surf to go down. He had never 
seen such waves before. We had to beach the boat every night to 
save her from being swamped at anchor ; and, did we not believe the 
gales to be peculiar to one season of the year, would call Nyassa the 
" Lake of storms." 

Lake Nyassa receives no great affluents from the west. The five 
rivers we observed in passing did not at this time appear to bring in as 
much water as the Shire was carrying out. They were from fifteen 
CO thirty yards wide, and some too deep to ford j but the evaporation 
must be very considerable. These streams, with others of about the 
same size from the mountains on the east and north, when swollen by 
the rains, may be sufficient to account for the rise in the lake without 
any large river. The natives nearest the northern end denied the ex- 
istence of a large river there, though at one time it seemed necessary 
to account for the Shire's perennial flow. Distinct white marks on 
the rocks showed that, for some time during the rainy season, the 
water of the lake is three feet above the point to which it falls towards 
the close of the dry period of the year. The rains begin here in 
November, and the permanent rise of the Shire does not take place 
till January. The western side of Lake Nyassa, with the exception 
of the great harbour to the west of Cape Maclear, is a succession of 
small bays of nearly similar form, each having an open sandy beach 
and pebbly shore, and being separated from its neighbour by a rocky 
headland, with detached rocks extending some distance out to sea. 
The great south-western bay referred to would form a magnificent 
harbour, the only really good one we saw to the west. — Narrative of 
an Expedition to the Zambesi and its Tributaries ; and of the Discovery 
of the Lakes Shirwa and Nyassa, 1858 — 1864, ch. xix. 



75.— ON MAGNETISM. 

[Baron von Humboldt, 1769 — 1859. 

[Frederick Henry Alexander, Baron von Humboldt, was born at Berlin, Sep- 
tember 14, 1769. He early distinguished himself in studies referrini to physical 
nature, by contributions to various German periodici^ls. In 1799 he set out on a 
scientific voyage to South America, returning in 1804, and an account of his travels. 



192 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Von Humboldt. 

under the title " Voyage to the Interior of America," appeared between 1807 and 181 7. 
In 1829 Humboldt set out again on a journey of scientific discovery to the Asiatic 
region of the Russian empire, and after his return published " Fragments of 
Asiatic Geology and Climatology" in 1831. His great work, " Cosmos," a general 
survey of the physical phenomena of the Universe, appeared between the years 1845 
and 1858. This indefatigable author and traveller, who wrote several other works, 
died May 6, 1859.] 

But whatever be'fhe cause of the internal temperature of our planet, 
and of its limited or unhmited increase in the deeper strata, it still 
leads in this Essay to present a general picture of nature, through the 
intimate connexion of all the primary phenomena of matter, and 
through the common bond which surrounds the molecular forces into 
the obscure domain of magnetism. Changes of temperature elicit 
magnetical and electrical currents. Terrestrial magnetism, whose 
principal character in the threefold manifestation of its force is an 
uninterrupted periodic changeableness, is ascribed either to the un- 
equally heated mass of the earth itself, or to those galvanic currents 
which we consider as electricity in motion, as electricity in a circuit 
returning into itself. The mysterious march of the magnetic needle 
is equally influenced by the course of the sun, and change of place 
upon the earth's surface. The hour of the day can be told between 
the tropics by the motion of the needle, as well as by the oscillations 
of the mercury in the barometer. It is suddenly, though only 
passingly, affected by the remote aurora, by the glow of heaven which 
emanates in colours at one of the poles. When the tranquil hourly 
motion of the needle is disturbed by a magnetical storm, the perturba- 
tion frequently proclaims itself over hundreds and thousands of miles, 
in the strictest sense of the word simultaneously, or it is propagated 
gradually, in brief intervals of time, in every direction over the sur- 
face of the earth. In the first case the simultaneousness of the storm 
might serve, like the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites, fire signals, and 
well observed shooting stars, within certain limits for the determination 
of geographical longitudes. It is seen with amazement that the 
tremblings of two small magnetic needles, were they suspended deep 
in subterraneous space, measure the distance that intervenes between 
them ; that they tell us how far Kasan lies east from Gottingen, or 
from the banks of the River Seine. There are regions of the earth 
where the seaman, enveloped for days in fog, without sight of the sun 
or stars, without all other means of ascertaining the time, can still 
accurately determine the hour by the variation of the dip of the 
needle, and know whether he be to the north or south of the port 
towards which he would steer his course. 

If the sudden perturbation of the needle in its hourly course makes 
known the occurrence of a magnetic storm, the seat of the perturbing 



Tasso.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 193 

cause — whether it be to seek in the crust of the earth itself, or in the 
upper regions of the air — remains^ to our extreme regret, as yet unde- 
termined. If we regard the earth as an actual magnet, then are we 
compelled, according to the decision of the deep thinking founder of 
a general theory of terrestrial magnetism, Frederick Gauss, to admit, 
that every eighth of a cubic metre, or thirty-sev(i«i tenths of a cubic 
foot of the earth, possesses, on an average, at least as much magnetism 
as a one pound magnetic bar. If iron and nickel, and probably cobalt 
also — not chrome, as was long supposed — be the only substances which 
become permanently magnetic, and retain polarity by a certain coercive 
force, the phenomena of Arago's rotative magnetism and Faraday's 
induced currents, assure us, on the other hand, that probably all ter- 
restrial substances may passingly comport themselves magnetically. 
From the experiments of the first of the great natural philosophers 
just mentioned, water, ice, glass, and charcoal affect the oscillations of 
the needle precisely as quicksilver does in the rotatory experiments. 
Almost all substances show themselves in a certain degree magnetic 
when they are conductors — that is to say, when they are traversed by 
a current of electricity. — Cosmos. 



76.— THE COMBAT BETWEEN TANCRED AND ARGANTES. 

[Tasso, 1544 — 1595. Fairfax, — 1632. 

[ToRQUATO Tasso, born at Sorrento, March 11, 1544, studied law at the University 
of Padua, and wrote his first poem, "Rinaldo," at the age of eighteen. It was 
dedicated to the Cardinal Luigi d'Este, who took the young poet into his service as a 
gentleman attendant. Tasso fell in love with Laura Peperara, a lady of Mantua, in 
1564, to whom he addressed many sonnets. He was afterwards captivated by the 
Princess Eleonora, sister of Alphonso II,, Duke of Ferrara, and the passion led to loss 
of favour and imprisonment. A complete edition of his great epic poem, " Godfrey 
of BuUoigne ; or the Recovery of Jerusalem," in twenty cantos, was published at 
Parma in 1581, and at Mantua in 1584. Tasso visited Rome for the last time in 
Nov., 1594, when the Pope and the Senate decreed that he was to be solemnly 
crowned with the laurel leaf in the Capitol, but the poet fell ill and died April 25, 
1595. There are several English translations of the "Jerusalem," which has been 
rendered into most modern languages. Edward Fairfax, from whose version the 
following extract is taken, was a native of Yorkshire. His translation appeared in 
1600, and he died in 1632. Hoole's life of Tasso appeared in 1762, Black's in 
1810, and Milman's in 1850. There are numerous biographies of the poet. 
Hallam says: "'The Jerusalem' is read with pleasure in almost every canto. No 
poem, perhaps, if we except the ' ^Eneid,' has so few weak or tedious pages ; the 
worst passages are the speeches, which are too diffuse."] 

Tancred of body active was and light. 

Quick, nimble, ready both of hand and foot : 

But higher by the head the Pagan knight 
Of limbs far greater was, of heart as stout. 
o 



194 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tasso. 

Tancred laid low and traversed in his fight, 

Now to his ward retired, now struck out j 
Oft with his sword his foe's fierce blows he broke. 
And rather chose to ward than bear his stroke. 

But bold and bolt upright Argantes fought. 

Unlike in gesture, like in skill and art ; 
His sword outstretched before him far he brought. 

Nor would his weapon touch, but pierce his heart : 
To catch his point Prince Tancred strove and sought. 

But at his breast or helm's unclosed part 
He threatened death, and would with stretched-out brand 
His entrance close and fierce assaults withstand. 

With a tall ship so doth a galley fight. 

When the still winds stir not th' unstable main. 

Where this in nimbleness as that in might 

Excels ; that stands, this goes and comes again. 

And shifts from prow to poop with turnings light : 
Meanwhile the other doth unmoved remain, 

A-nd on her nimble foe approacheth nigh. 

Her mighty engines tumbleth down from high. 

The Christian sought to enter on his foe. 

Voiding his point, which at his breast was bent j 

Argentes at his face a thrust did throw. 

Which while the Prince awards and doth prevent,. 

His ready hand the Pagan turned so 

That all defence his quickness far o'erwent. 

And pierced his side, which done, he said, and smiled — 

*'The craftsman is in his own craft beguiled " 

Tancredie bit his lips for scorn and shame. 

Nor longer stood on points of fence and skill, 

But to revenge so fierce and fast he came. 
As if his hand could not o'ertake his will 3 

And at his vizor aiming just, 'gan frame 

To his proud boast an answer sharp ; but still 

Argantes broke the thrust, and at half-sword. 

Swift, hardy, bold, in stept the Christian lord 3 

With his left foot fast forward 'gan he stride. 
And with his left the Pagan's right arm hent -, 

With his right hand meanwhile the man's right side 
He cut, he wounded, mangled, tore, and rent : — 



Tasso.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 195 

"To his victorious teacher/' Tancred cried, 

" His conquered scholar hath this answer sent." — 
Argantes chafed, struggled, turned and twined. 
Yet could not so his captive arm unbind : 

His sword at last he let hang by the chain. 
And griped his hardy foe in both his hands ; 

In his strong arms Tancred caught him again. 
And thus each other held and wrapt in bands. 

With greater might Alcides did not strain 
The giant Anteus on the Sylvian sands 3 

On hold-fast knots their brawny arms they cast. 

And whom he hateth most each held embraced. 

Such was their wrestling, such their shocks and throws. 
That down at once they tumbled both to ground j 

Argantes (were it hap or skill, who knows ?) 
His better hand loose and in freedom found , 

But the good Prince, his hand more fit for blows. 
With his huge weight the Pagan underbound j 

But he, his disadvantage great that knew. 

Let go his hold, and on his feet up flew. 

Far slower rose th' unwieldy Saracine, 

And caught a rap ere he was reared upright : 

But as against the blust'ring winds a pine 

Now bends his top, now lifts his head on height. 

His courage so, when it 'gan most decline. 
The man reinforced and advanced his might. 

And with fierce change of blows renewed the fray. 

Where rage for skill, horror for art bore sway. 

The purple drops from Tancred's sides down railed. 
But from the Pagan ran whole streams of blood. 

Wherewith his force grew weak, his courage quailed. 
As fires decay which fuel want for food. 

Tancred, that saw his feeble arm now failed 

To strike his blows, that scant he stirred or stood. 

Assuaged his anger and his wrath allayed. 

And stepping back, thus gently spoke and said : — 

*' Yield, hardy knight, and chance of war, or me. 

Confess to have subdued thee in this fight ; 
I will no trophy, triumph, spoil of thee. 

Nor glory wish, nor seek a victor's right." — 

O 3 



196 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tasso. 

More terrible than erst herewith grew he. 

And all awaked his fury, rage, and might. 
And said — " Dar'st thou of 'vantage speak or think. 
Or move Argantes once to yield or shrink ? 

*' Use, use thy 'vantage ; thee and fortune both 
I scorn, and punish will thy foolish pride." — 

As a hot brand flames most ere it forth go'th. 
And, dying, blazeth bright on every side 5 

So he (when blood was lost) with anger wroth. 
Revived his courage, when his puissance died ; 

And would his latest hour, which now drew nigh. 

Illustrate with his end, and nobly die. 

He joined his left hand to her sister strong. 

And with them both let fall his weighty blade. 

Tancred, to ward his blow, his sword up flung. 
But that it smote aside, nor there it stayed. 

But from his shoulder to his side along 

It glanced, and many wounds at once it made : 

Yet Tancred feared nought, for in his heart 

Found coward dread no place, fear had no part. 

His fearful blow he doubled, but he spent 

His force in waste, and all his strength in vain ; 

For Tancred from the blow against him bent 
Leaped aside, the stroke fell on the plain : 

With thine own weight o'erthrown to earth thou went, 
Argantes stout, nor could'st thyself sustain. 

Thyself thou threwest down, O happy man ! 

Upon whose fall none boast or triumph can. 

His gaping wounds the fall set open wide, 

The streams of blood about him made a lake ; 

Helped with his left hand, on one knee he tried 
To rear himself, and new defence to make. 

The courteous prince stepped back, and ''Yield thee," cried 3 
No hurt he proffered him, no blow he strake. 

Meanwhile, by steahh, the Pagan false him gave 

A sudden wound, threat'ning with speeches brave. 

Herewith Tancredie furious grew, and said — 
" Villain ! does thou my mercy so despise?" 

Therewith he thrust and thrust again his blade. 
And through his vental pierced his dazzled eyes. 



Latimer.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 197 

Argantes died, yet no complaint he made. 
But as he furious lived he careless dies ; 
Bold, proud, disdainful, fierce, and void of fear. 
His motions last, last looks, last speeches were. 

— Godfrey of Bulloigne ; or, the Recovery of Jerusalem, Book xix. 

§ xi — xxvi. 



77.— THE APOSTLES FISHERS OF MEN. 

[Bishop Latimer, 1472 — 1555. 

[Hugh Latimer, born at Thorcaston, in Leicestershire, in 1472, finished his education 
at Cambridge. Having, in 1535, been made Bishop of Worcester, he laboured 
zealously in his see, and became one of the most active promoters of the Refor- 
mation. On the passing of the Six Acts in 1539, Latimer resigned his bishopric, and 
on coming to London soon after to obtain surgical advice, was thrown into the Tower. 
Here he remained a prisoner six years. On the accession of Edward VL he 
obtained his liberty, but refused, on account of his great age, to resume his see. 
When Mary came to the throne, he was again committed to the Tower, and suffered 
at the stake at Oxford, with Ridley, Oct. i6th, 1555. Several of his sermons 
were published during his lifetime, and they have since been collected and reprinted. 
Hallam says ("Lit. Hist.," part i, ch. vi.): "They are read for their honest zeal and 
lively delineation of manners. They are probably the best specimens of a style then 
prevalent in the pulpit, and which is still not lost in Italy, nor among some of our 
own sectaries ; a style that came at once home to the vulgar, animated and effective, 
picturesque and intelligible, but too unsparing both of ludicrous associations and com- 
monplace invective." At the stake he encouraged his fellow-sufferer, Ridley, in these 
memorable words — " Be of good comfort. Master Ridley, and play the man ; we 
shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never 
be put out." His life, by William Gilpin, appeared in 1755, and is given in the first 
volume of his Lives of the Reformers, published in 1809. A life, by Dr. Watkins, 
is prefixed to an edition of Latimer's "Fruitful Sermons," published in 1824, and a 
memoir, by the Rev. G. E. Corrie, is prefixed to the edition of his works, published 
by the Parker Society in 1844.] 

This is the gospel (Matthew iv. 18 — 20) which is read in the church 
this day : and it sheweth unto us how our Saviour called four persoi>s 
to his company j namely, Peter and Andrew, James and John, which 
were all fishers by their occupation. This was their general vocation j 
but now Christ our Saviour called them to a more special vocation. 
They were fishers still, but they fished no more for fish in the water, 
but they must fish now for men, with the net which was prepared to 
the same purpose, namely, with the gospel ; for the gospel is the net 
wherewith the apostles fished after they came to Christ, but specially 
after his departing out of this world : then they went and fished 
throughout the whole world. And of these fishers was spoken a great 
while ago by the prophet : for so it is written — " Behold, saith the 
Lord, I will send out many fishers to take them 3 and after that will I 



198 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Latimer. 

send hunters to hunt them out from all mountains and hills, and out 
of the caves of stone." By these words God signified by his prophets,* 
how those fishers, that is, the apostles, should preach the gospel, and 
take the people therewith, (that is, all they that should believe,) and so 
bring them to God. It is commonly seen that fishers and hunters be 
very painful people both ; they spare no labour to catch their game, 
because they be so desirous and so greedy over their game, that they 
care not for pains. Therefore our Saviour chose fishers, because of 
these properties, that they should be painful and spare no labour j 
and then that they should be greedy to catch men, and to take them 
with the net of God's word, to turn the people from wickedness to 
God. Ye see, by daily experience, what pain fishers and hunters take^ 
how the fisher watcheth day and night at his net, and is ever ready to 
take all such fishes that he can get, and come in his way. So, likewise, 
the hunter runneth hither and thither after his game ; leapeth over 
hedges, and creepech through rough bushes j and all this labour he 
esteemeth for nothing, because he is so desirous to obtain his prey, and 
catch his venison. So all our prelates, bishops, and curates, parsons 
and vicars, should be as painful and greedy in casting their nets ; that 
is to say, in preaching God's word j in shewing unto the people the 
way to everlasting life; in exhorting them to leave their sins and 
wickedness. This ought to be done of them, for thereunto they \)Q 
called of God ; such a charge they have. But the most part of them 
set, now-a-days, aside this fishing j they put away this net -, they take 
other business in hand : they will rather be surveyors, or receivers, or 
clerks in the kitchen, than to cast out this net : they have the living of 
fishers, but they fish not, they are otherways occupied. But it should 
not be so j God will plague and most heinously punish them for so 
doing. They shall be called to make account one day, where they 
shall not be able to make answer for their misbehaviours, for not 
casting out this net of God's word, for suffering the people to go to the 
devil, and they call them not again, they admonish them not. Their 
perishing grieveth them not ; but the day will come when they shall 
repent from the bottom of their hearts ; but then it will be too late : 
then they shall receive their well deserved punishment for their negli- 
gence and slothfulness, for taking their living of the people, and not 
teaching them. 

The evangelists speak diversely of the calling of these four men, 
Peter, Andrew, James and John. Matthew saith, that ^^ Jesus called 
them, and they immediately left their nets, and followed him."t Luke 



* Jer. xvi. 16. -f Matthew iv. 20. 



Latimer.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 199 

saith that our Saviour '' stood by the Lake of Genezareth, and there 
he saw two ships standing by the lake side, and he entered in one of 
these ships, which was Peter's, and desired him that he would thrust 
it a little from land : and so he taught the people -, and after that^ 
when he had made an end of speaking, he said to Simon Peter, cast 
out thy net in the deep : and Simon answered, we have laboured all 
night and have taken nothing ; nevertheless at thy commandment I 
will loose forth the net. And when they had cast it out they enclosed 
a great multitude of fishes. Now Peter, seeing such a multitude of 
fishes, was beyond himself, and fell down at Jesus's knees, saying, Lord, 
go from me, for I am a sinful man : for he was astonished, and all 
that were with him, at the draught of the fishes, which they had 
taken. And there were also James and John the sons of Zebedee. 
And Jesus said unto Peter, Fear not from henceforth thou shalt catch 
men : and they brought the ships to land, and forsook all and followed 
him."* So ye hear how Luke describeth this story, in what manner 
of ways Christ called them -, and though he make no mention of 
Andrew, yet it was like that he was amongst them too, with Peter, 
John and James. The evangelist John, in the first chapter, describeth 
this matter of another manner of ways, but it pertaineth all to one 
end and to one effect : for it was most like that they were called first 
to come in acquaintance with Christ, and afterwaTds to be his disciples, 
and so in the end to be his apostles, which should teach and instruct 
the whole world. John the Evangelist saith, that Andrew was a 
disciple of John Baptist ; and when he had seen his master point to 
Christ with his finger, saying, *' Lo the Lamb of God that taketh away 
the sins of the world"t — (they used in the law to offer lambs for the 
pacifying of God : now John called Christ the right Lamb M^hich 
should take away indeed all the sins of the world) ; now when 
Andrew heard whereunto Christ was come, he forsook his master 
John, and came to Christ 3 and fell in acquaintance with him, asked 
him where he dwelled j and, finding his brother Simon Peter he told 
him of Christ, and brought him to Him. He brought him not to 
John, but to Christ : and so should we do too ; we should bring to 
Christ as many as we could, with good exhortations and admonitions. 
Now Christ seeing Peter, said unto him, "Thou art Simon the son of 
Jonas ; thou shalt be called Cephas, which is by interpretation a 
stone :"t signifying that Peter should be a stedfast fellow, not wavering 
hither and thither. — Sermon on Matthew iv. 18, 19, and 20, preached 
on St. Andrew's Day, 1552. 



* Luke V. I — II. t John i. 29. % John i. 42. 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hazlitt. 



78.—KNOWLEDGE OF MANKIND. 

[Hazlitt, 1778 — 1830. 

[William Hazlitt, son of a Unitarian minister, was born at Maidstone, April 10, 
1778, and became a student at the Unitarian College, at Hackney, in 1793. He 
left college in 1795, visited Paris in 1802, and having devoted himself to literary pur- 
suits, published anonymously " An Essay on the Principles of Human Action" in 
1803. Hazlitt, who contributed to various periodicals, delivered a course of lectures 
on the History of English Philosophy in 18 13. The "Round Table," a collection 
of essays which appeared in 181 7, was followed by numerous works, amongst which 
"Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth," published in 182 1, 
and "A Life of Napoleon Buonaparte," in 1828, are best known. Sir A. Alison 
remarks : " In critical disquisitions on the leading characters and works of the drama 
he is not surpassed in the whole range of English literature." He died Sept. 
18, 1830. A life by his son is prefixed to "Literary Remains," published in 
1836.] 

A KNOWLEDGE of mankind is a little more than Sir Pertinax's instinct 
of bowing, or of never standing upright in the presence of a great 
man, or of that great blockhead the world. It is not a perception of 
truth, but a sense of power, and an instant determination of the will 
to submit to it. It is, therefore, less an intellectual acquirement than a 
natural disposition. It is on this account that I think both cunning 
and wisdom are a sort of original endowments, or attain maturity 
much earlier than is supposed, from their being moral qualities, and 
having their seat in the heart rather than the head. The difference 
depends on the manner of seeing things. The one is a selfish, the 
other is a disinterested view of nature. The one is the clear open look 
of integrity, the other is a contracted and blear-eyed obliquity of mental 
vision. If any one has but the courage and honesty to look at an 
object as it is in itself, or divested of prejudice, fear, and favour, he 
will be sure to see it pretty right ; as he who regards it through the 
refractions of opinion and fashion, will be sure to see it distorted and 
falsified, however the error may redound to his own advantage. Cer- 
tainly, he who makes the universe tributary to his convenience, and 
subjects all his impressions of what is right or wrong, true or false, 
black or white, round or square, to the standard and maxims of the 
world, who never utters a proposition but he fancies a patron close at 
his elbow who overhears him, who is even afraid in private to suffer 
an honest conviction to rise in his mind, lest it should mount to his 
iips, get wind, and ruin his prospects in life, ought to gain something 
in exchange for the restraint and force put upon his thoughts and 
faculties : on the contrary, he who is confined by no such petty and 
debasing trammels, whose comprehension of mind is " in large heart 
enclosed," finds his inquiries and his views expand in a degree com- 
mensurate with the universe around him -, makes truth welcome wher- 



Balzac] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 201 

ever he meets her, and receives her cordial embrace in return. To see 
things divested of passion and interest, is to see them with the eye of 
history and philosophy. It is easy to judge right, or at least to come 
to a mutual understanding in matters of history^ and abstract morality. 
Why then is it so difficult to arrive at the same calm certainty in 
actual life ? Because the passions and interests are concerned, and it 
requires so much more candour, love of truth, and independence of 
spirit to encounter ^' the world and its dread laugh," to throw aside 
every sinister consideration, and grapple with the plain merits of the 
case. To be wiser than other men is to be honester than they ; and 
strength of mind is only courage to see and speak the truth. Perhaps 
the courage may be also owing to the strength ; but both go together 
and are natural, and not acquired. Do we not see in fables the force 
of the moral principle in detecting the truth ? The only effect of 
fables is, by making inanimate or irrational things actors in the scene, 
to remove the case completely from our own sphere, to take our self- 
love off its guard, to simplify the question ; and yet the result of this 
obvious appeal is allowed to be universal and irresistible. Is not this 
another example that ''the heart of man is deceitful above all things 3" 
or, that it is less our incapacity to distinguish what is right, than our 
secret determination to adhere to what is wrong, that prevents our dis- 
criminating one from the other ? It is not that great and useful truths 
are not manifest and discernible in themselves 3 but little dirty objects 
get between them and us, and from being near and gross, hide the 
lofty and distant. The first business of the patriot and the philan- 
thropist is to overleap this barrier, to rise out of this material dross. 
Indignation, contempt of the base and grovelling, makes the philosopher 
no less than the poet ; and it is the power of looking beyond self, that 
enables each to inculcate moral truth and nobleness of sentiment, the 
one by general precepts, the other by individual example. — Sketches 
and Essays. 



79.— BALTHAZAR CLAES IN HIS LABORATORY. 

[Balzac, 1799 — 1850. 

[HoNOR^ DE Balzac, born at Tours, May 20, 1799, and educated at the college at 
Vendome, was aftei-wards placed with a notary at Paris, where he began writing for 
the press. Between 1821 — 7, he published several tales under the assumed name of 
Horace de St. Aubin, and in 1826, commenced as a partner in a printing and book- 
selling business, which did not prove successful. The first novel published vdth his 
own name, "Les Derniers Chouans, ou la Bretagne en 1800," appeared at Paris in 
1829. This was followed by a long series of works of fiction, several of which 
have been translated into the English language. His " La Peau de Chagrin," 
published at Paris in 1829, first rendered him famous. The Countess Eveline 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Balzac. 



de Hanska, wife of a Polish nobleman, possessing large estates, wrote Balzac a 
complimentary letter on the publication of the " Medecin de Campagne" in 1835. 
This led to a correspondence ; the Countess, to whom he dedicated his novel " Sera- 
phita," became a widow, and they were married in 1848. He tried to write dramas, 
but failed. A complete edition of his works in 20 vols, was published at Paris 
1853-5. Balzac died at Paris Aug. 18, 1850. 

A BANKER of the city came to demand payment of a bill of 
exchange for ten thousand francs, accepted by Claes. Marguerite 
having requested the banker to wait during the day, and evincing 
regret that she had not been made aware of this bill coming due, the 
latter informed her that the house of Protez and Chiffreville had nine 
others, of the same amount, falling due from month to month. 

''^ All is said !" cried Marguerite ; '^the hour is come !" 

She sent for her father, and walked with hasty steps and in great 
agitation about the parlour, talking to herself. " Find a hundred 
thousand francs !" said she, '' or see our father in prison ! What is to 
be done ?" 

Balthazar did not come down. Tired of waiting for him. Mar- 
guerite went up to the laboratory. On entering, she found her father 
in an immense apartment, strongly lighted, furnished with machines, 
and heavy pieces of glasswork ; here and there books, tables loaded 
with products, ticketed and numbered. Everywhere the disorder 
which the profession of the savant drags in its train, offensive to 
Flemish habits. This collection of long-necked bottles, retorts, 
metals, fantastically-coloured crystallizations, sketches fastened against 
the walls, or cast upon the stoves, was dominated by the figure of 
Balthazar Claes, without his coat, his shirt-sleeves tucked up like those 
of a workman, and his open breast covered with hair as white as that 
on his head. His eyes were intensely, frightfully, fixed upon a pneu- 
matic machine. The recipient of this machine was surmounted and 
closed by a lens of double convex glasses ; the interior was filled with 
alcohol, and it collected in the powerful focus the rays of the sun, 
which entered by one of the compartments of the little garret 
window. The recipient, the plateau of which was isolated, communi- 
cated with the wires of an immense voltaic pile. 

Lemulquinier, occupied in moving the plateau of this machine, 
mounted on a movable axle, in order to keep the lens in a direction 
perpendicular to the rays of the sun, rose up, with a face black with 
dust, exclaiming — 

" Ah, mademoiselle, don't come in !" 

The aspect of her father, who, almost kneeling before his machine, 
received the light of the sun full upon his bald, bumpy head, the thin 
hairs of which resembled fine silver wire 3 his countenance contracted 
by fearful expectation 3 the singularity of the objects which sur- 



Balzac] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 203 

rounded him ; the obscurity of most parts of this immense loft from 
which gleamed strange machines — all contributed to strike Marguerite, 
who exclaimed in an accent of terror, — 

"My father is mad!" She approached him, and whispered in his 
ear — " Send away Lemulquinier." 

" No, no, my child ; I want him. I expect the issue of a beautiful 
experiment, which nobody has dreamt of. We have been three days 
watching for a ray of the sun. I have found the means of submitting 
metals, in a perfect void, to concentrated sun-rays and electric currents. 
Look, then j in a moment the most energetic action a chemist has in 
his power is about to be displayed, and I alone " 

" Yes, father, but instead of vaponrizing metals, you ought to keep 
them to discharge your bills of exchange !" 

"Wait ! wait ! I tell you." 

" M. Mersktus has been here, father 3 he demands ten thousand 
francs within four hours !" 

'' Yes, yes, I know ; presently will do for that. I did sign a bill for 
some such trifle, which would be due this month 5 that is true j but I 
thought I should have found the absolute. Good God ! if it were a 
July sun my experiment would be completed!" He clutched his thin 
grey hair, seated himself in an old cane chair, and the tears rolled 
down his cheeks. 

" Monsieur is right. All this is owing to that beggarly sun ; it is 
too weak ! — the mean, idle " 

" Leave us, Lemulquinier," said she. 

" I am engaged in a new experiment, I tell you," said Claes. 

" Father, you must forget your experiments," said his daughter to 
him, when they were left alone ; " you have a hundred thousand 
francs to pay, and you do not possess a farthing. Leave your 
laboratory, your honour is at stake. What will become of you in 
prison ? Would you stain your grey hairs and the name of Claes by 
the infamy of bankruptcy? I will oppose myself to it 5 I will find 
strength to combat your madness ; it would be frightful to see you 
without bread in your last days. Open your eyes upon your position ! 
exercise a little reason !" 

"Madness!" cried Balthazar, who drew himself up, fixed his 
luminous eyes upon his daughter, crossed his arms upon his breast, and 
repeated the word madness so majestically, that Marguerite trembled. 
"Ah, your mother would not have spoken that word !" replied he j 
" she was not ignorant of the importance of my researches ; she 
studied my science in order to understand me ; she knew that I 
worked for humanity's sake, that there is nothing personal or sordid in 
me. The sentiment of a woman who loves is, I see, above filial 



204 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Turner. 

affection. Yes, love is the most beautiful of all sentiments ! Exercise 
reason, indeed !" continued he, striking his breast. "Am I wanting 
in it ? Am I not myself ? We are poor, my child, very well ! I 
wish it to be so. I am your father, — obey me. I will make you rich 
when I please. Your fortune ! Bah ! that is a trifle ! When I shall 
have discovered a dissolvent for carbon, I will fill your parlour with 
diamonds ; and that is a nothing in comparison with what I am in 
search of. You surely can wait while I am consuming myself in 
gigantic efforts." 

" Father, I have no right to demand an account of you of the four 
millions you have squandered in this garret without a result. I will 
not mention my mother, whom you killed. If I had a husband, I 
should, no doubt, love him as much as my mother loved you, and 
should be ready to sacrifice everything to him. I have followed her 
orders in giving myself up to you entirely. I have proved it to you 
by not marrying, that you might not be forced to render an account of 
your guardianship. Let us leave the past and think of the present. I 
am come here to represent a necessity you have yourself created. 
Money must be had to provide for your bills of exchange, — do you 
understand that ? There is nothing left here that can be seized but 
the portrait of your ancestor, Van-Claes. I come, then, in the name 
of my mother, who proved too weak to defend her children against 
their father, and who ordered me to resist you ; — I come in the name 
of my brothers and sister — I come, father, in the name of all the 
Claes, to command you to discontinue your experimenrs, and to make 
a fortune by other means before you resume them. If you arm your- 
self with your paternity, which only makes itself felt to kill us, I have 
on my part, your ancestors and honour, which speak with a louder 
voice than chemistry ; families take precedence of science. I have 
been too much your daughter!" 

" And would now wish to be my executioner," said he, in. a weak 
voice. Marguerite made her escape, to avoid failing in the part she 
had undertaken to play: she thought she heard the voice of her 
mother, when she had said : " Do not thwart your father too much, 
love him dearly.'' — Balthazar, or Science and Love. 



80.— THE WITENA-GEMOT, OR ANGLO-SAXON PARLIAMENT. 

[Turner, 1768 — 1847. 

[Sharon Turner, born in London, Sep. 24, 1768, was educated at a school in Pen- 

tonville, and at an early age was articled to an attorney. The first volume of his 

"History of the Anglo-Saxons" appeared in 1799, and the third in 1805. The 

three volumes of the " History of England during the Middle Ages, from the 



Turner.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 205 

»r 
Norman Conquest to 1509," appeared in 1814, 1815, and 1823; "The History of 
the Reign of Henry VIII." in 1826; and "The History of the Reigns of Edward VI., 
Mary, and Elizabeth/' in 1829. Sharon Turner wrote some poems, and "The 
Sacred History of the World," in three volumes, which appeared in 1832, 1834, and 
1837. He died in Red Lion Square, London, Feb. 13, 1847.] 

The gemot of the witan was the great council of the Anglo-Saxon 
nation j their parliament, or legislative and supreme judicial assembly. 
As the highest judicial court of the kingdom, it resembled our present 
House of Lords 5 and in those periods, when the peers of the realm 
represented territorial property, rather than hereditary dignities, the 
comparison between the Saxon witena-gemot and the Upper House 
of our modern parliament might have been more correctly made in 
their legislative capacity. As the German states are recorded by 
Tacitus to have had national councils, so the continental Saxons are 
also stated to have possessed them. 

If we had no other evidence of the political wisdom of our Gothic 
or Teutonic ancestors than their institution of the witena-gemots, or 
national parliaments, this happy and wise invention would be sufficient 
to entitle them to our veneration and gratitude. For they have not 
only given to Government a form, energy, and direction, more promo- 
tive of the happiness of mankind than any other species of it has 
exhibited, but they are the most admirable provision for adapting its 
exercise and continuance to all the new circumstances ever arising of 
society, and for suiting and favouring its continual progress. 

Of these assemblies, originating amid the woods and migrations of 
the Teutonic tribes, one important use has been to remove from the 
nation that has possessed and preserved them, the reproach, the 
bondage, and the miseiy of an immutable legislation. The Medes 
and Persians made it their right that their laws should never be 
changed ; not even to be improved. This truly barbaric conception, 
a favourite dogma also with the kingly priests, or priestly kings of the 
Nile, and even at Lacedemon, could only operate to curtail society of 
its fair growth, and to bind all future ages to be as imperfect as the 
past. It may produce such a political and inteDectual monstrosity as 
Egypt long exhibited, and force a nation to remain a piece of 
mechanism of bygone absurdity. But internal degradation and dis- 
comfort, external weakness, and national inferiority and decay, are the 
certain accompaniments of a policy so violent and unnatural. 

Instead of thus making the times of ignorance, national infancy, and 
incipient experience the standard and the laws of the country's future 
manhood, the Anglo-Saxon witena-gemot or parliament was a wise 
and parental lawgiver j not bound in the chains of an obsolete anti- 



2o6 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Turner. 

quity, but always providing with a nurturing care 3 always living, 
feeling, and acting with the population and circumstances of the day, 
and providing such regulations, either by alterations of former laws, or 
by the additions of new ones, as the vicissitudes, novelties, wants, im- 
provement, sentiment, situation, and interest of the co-existing society, 
in its various classes, were found to be continually needing : sometimes 
legislating for the benefit of the rich, or the great, or the clergy, or the 
commercial, or the agriculturist j sometimes for the middling and 
lower orders ; and sometimes collectively for all. Open to petitions 
stating the grievances from which certain classes or individuals occa- 
sionally suffer, and acquiring thus a knowledge of the wants and 
feelings of society, which no vigilance of its own, or of Government, 
could by other means obtain : ready to enact new laws, as manifest 
evils suggest, and reasoning wisdom patronizes, an English parliament, 
with all its imperfections, many, perhaps, inevitable, is — I speak with 
reverence, and only use the expression from the want of another as 
meaning — the nearest human imitation of a superintending Providence 
which our necessities or our sagacity have as yet produced or devised. 
The right of petitioning brings before it all the evils, real or imagi- 
nary, that affect the population which it guards 3 and the popular 
part being new-chosen at reasonable intervals, from the most 
educated orders of society, is perpetually renewed with its best talents ; 
and, what is not less valuable, with its living and contemporaneous 
feelings, fears, hopes, and tendencies. No despotic Government, how- 
ever pure and wise, can have these advantages. It cannot so effec- 
tually know what its subjects want. It cannot so well judge what they 
ought to obtain. It cannot so completely harmonize with the sympa- 
thies and flowing mind of the day, because its majesty precludes the 
acquisition of such identity as a septennial or hexennial election infuses. 
Whether new members are chosen, or old ones are re-elected, in both 
cases the election bespeaks their affinity with the hearts and under- 
standings that surround them, and provides the security for a kind, 
vigilant, and improved legislation, more effectually than any other system 
has yet imparted. Our Anglo-Saxon ancestors had all these advantages, 
though the peculiar state of their society prevented them from having 
that full benefit of such a noble institution as we now enjoy. But 
they were petitioned, and they legislated ; and the dom-boc, or laws, 
of every Anglo-Saxon reign that has survived to us contains some im- 
provements on the preceding. Some of their members were also most 
probably chosen, like our own august parliament. The noble tree 
was then planted and growing, and had begun to produce fruit, though 
it had not obtained the majestic strength and dilation, and the beauty 



Park.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 207 

and fertility of that which now overshadows^ protects, and distinguishes 
the British islands and their dependencies. — The History of the Anglo- 
Saxons from the Earliest Period to the Norman Conquest, Book viii, 
ch. iv. 



81.— MANDINGO NEGRO'S STORY. 

[Park, 1771 — 1805. 

[MuNGO Park was born Sept. 10, 1771, at a farm on the banks of the Yarrow, near 
Selkirk, at the Grammar School of which town he received his education. When 
fifteen he was apprenticed to a surgeon, and enteied the University of Edinburgh in 
1789. On completing the course he removed to London, and he went as surgeon 
of the " Worcester," which sailed for the East Indies in Feb. 1792. Under the 
auspices of his friend Sir Joseph Banks, and the African Association, Mungo Park 
left England to explore the Niger, May 22, 1795, and landed near the mouth of the 
Gambia June 21. After undergoing a variety of adventures he set sail for EngUmd, 
where he arrived Dec. 22, 1797. An account of his travels appeared in 1799. He 
was married Aug. 2 of that year, and resided for some time at his native place, but 
accepted the invitation to undertake another expedition into the interior of Africa, 
and left England Jan. 30, 1805, and reached Goree March 28. The expedition 
suffered severely from illness, and of forty-four Europeans who left Gambia in April, 
only three. Park and two soldiers, remained alive in November. The last letter he 
wrote was addressed to his wife, from Sansanding, Nov. 19, 1805. For some time 
nothing more was heard of the traveller, and investigation having been instituted, it 
was found that he had perished in the Niger, into which he plunged to escape from 
the natives, by whom he had been treacherously assailed. Some journals and letters 
which he had sent to England a short time before were published in 18 15, with a 
Memoir of this enterprising traveller, by Major RennelL] 

In the evening we marched out to see an adjoining village belonging 
to a Slatee named JemafFoo Maraadoo, the richest of all the Gambia 
traders. We found him at home 3 and he thought so highly of the 
honour done him by this visit, that he presented us with a fine bullock, 
which was immediately killed, and part of it dressed for our evening's 
repast. 

The Negroes do not go to supper till late ; and in order to amuse 
ourselves while our beef was preparing, a Mandingo* was desired to 
relate some diverting stories ; in listening to which, and smoking 
tobacco, we spent three hours. These stories bear some resemblance 
to those in the Arabian Nights Entertainments 3 but, in general, are 
of a more ludicrous cast. I shall here abridge one of them for the 
reader's amusement. 

*'^Many years ago," said the relater, "the people of Doomasansa (a 



* The Mandingoes, so called from having originally migrated from Manding, form 
the bulk of the inhabitants of the countries bordering on the river Gambia. 



2o8 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Park. 

town on the Gambia) were much annoyed by a lion, that came every 
night, and took away some of their cattle. By continuing his depre- 
dations, the people were at length so much enraged, that a party of 
them resolved to go and hunt the monster. They accordingly pro- 
ceeded in search of the common enemy, which they found concealed 
in a thicket 3 and immediately firing at him, were lucky enough to 
wound him in such a manner, that, in springing from the thicket 
towards the people, he was thrown among the grass, and was unable 
to rise. The animal, however, manifested such appearance of vigour, 
that nobody cared to approach him singly ; and a consultation was 
held concerning the properest means of taking him alive ; a circum- 
stance, it was said, which, while it furnished undeniable proof of their 
prowess, would turn out to great advantage, it being resolved to convey 
him to the coast, and sell him to the Europeans. While some persons 
proposed one plan, and some another, an old man offered a scheme. 
This was, to strip the roof of a house of its thatch, and to carry the 
bamboo frame (the pieces of which are well secured together by 
thongs), and throw it over the Hon. If, in approaching him, he 
should attempt to spring upon them, they had nothing to do but 
to let down the roof upon themselves, and fire at the lion 
through the rafters. This proposition was approved and adopted. 
The thatch was taken from the roof of a hut, and the lion-hunters, 
supporting the fabric, marched courageously to the field of battle -, each 
person carrying a gun in one hand, and bearing his share of the roof 
on the opposite shoulder. In this manner they approached the 
enemy 3 but the beast had by this time recovered his strength 3 and 
such was the fierceness of his countenance, that the hunters, instead of 
proceeding any further, thought it prudent to provide for their own 
safety by covering themselves with the roof. Unfortunately, the lion 
was too nimble for them 3 for, making a spring while the roof was 
setting down, both the beast and his pursuers were caught in the same 
cage, and the lion devoured them at his leisure, to the great astonish- 
ment and mortification of the people of Doomasansa 3 at which place 
it is dangerous even at this day to tell the story 3 for it is become the 
subject of laughter and derision in the neighbouring countries, and 
nothing will enrage an inhabitant of that town so much as desiring 
him to catch a lion alive." — Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa, 
1795—7^ vol. i. ch. 3. 



Browne.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 209 



82.— OF THE PICTURES OF THE NINE WORTHIES.* 

[Sir THOMi\s Browne, 1605 — 1682. 
[Thomas Browne, born in Cheapside, October 19, 1605, was educated at Winchester, 
and Broadgate Hall, now Pembroke College, Oxford. He followed the medical pro- 
fession, took the degree of Doctor at Leyden, in 1633, and settled at Norwich in 1636. 
His first work, the "Religio Medici," published anonymously, in 1642, met with 
great success, and has been translated into most modern languages. His "Pseudo- 
doxia Epidemica; or Inquiries into Vulgar and Common Errors," appeared in 
1646, and his " Hydriotaphia: Urn-burial, or a Discourse of Sepulchral Urns," called 
by Hallam his "best work," in 1658. He was the author of other works, some of 
which were not published during his lifetime. A collected edition of his writings, 
by Archbishop Tenison, appeared in 1684, and a complete edition by S. Wilkins in 
1836. Browne, chosen honorary fellow of the College of Physicians in 1665, was 
knighted by Charles II. on his visit to Norwich in 167 1. A life accompanied his 
posthumous works published in 17 12; another was prefixed to the thirteenth edition 
of the "Religio Medici" in 1736; and Dr. Johnson wrote a memoir for the second 
edition of the "Christian Morals," published in 1756. Sir Thomas Browne was 
called "the philosopher of Norwich," at which city he died October T9th, 1682.] 

The pictures of the Nine Worthies are not unquestionable, and to 
critical spectators may seem to contain sundry improprieties. Some 
will inquire why Alexander the Great is described upon an elephant : 
for we do not find he used that animal in his armies, much less in his 
own person 3 but his horse is famous in history, and its name alive to 
this day.f Besides, he fought but one remarkable battle wherein there 
were any elephants, and that was with Porus, King of India, in which, 
notwithstanding, as Curtius, Arrianus, and Plutarch report, he was on 
horseback himself. And if because he fought against elephants he is 
with propriety set upon their backs, with no less (or greater) reason is 
the same description agreeable unto Judas Maccabaeus, as may be 
observed from the history of the Maccabees, and also unto Julius Caesar, 
whose triumph was honoured with captive elephants, as may be 
observed in the order thereof set forth by Jacobus Laurus.:}: And if 



* Namely, Joshua, Gideon, Samson, David, Judas Maccabaeus, Alexander the 
Great, Julius Caesar, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Boulogne. The list varies in 
different authors, Richard, or Robert Burton, (probably an assumed name for Nath. 
Crouch,) in his "History of the Nine Worthies," published in 1687, enumerates them 
thus : — three Gentiles, viz.. Hector, Alexander the Great, and Julius Caesar; three Jews, 
viz., Joshua, David, and Judas Maccabaeus ; and three Christians, viz., Arthur, Charle- 
magne, and Godfrey of Boulogne. In the pageant of the nine worthies in " Love's 
Labour's Lost," (Act v, sc. 2) Shakespeare introduces only five out of the nine worthies, 
the five being Pompey, Alexander, Judas Maccabaeus, Hercules, and Hector. A pamphlet, 
by Richard Johnson, author of "The Seven Champions of Christendom," published in 
1592, and reprinted in the "Harleian Miscellany," (vol. viii. p. 437,) entitled "The 
Nine Worthies of London," gives an account of nine illustrious citizens. 

t See page 169, Cowley. X In Splendore Urbis Antiquae. 



THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [Browne. 



also we should admit this description upon an elephant, yet were not 
the manner thereof unquestionable, that is, in his ruling the beast alone j 
for beside the champion upon their back, there was also a guide or 
ruler which sat more forward to command or guide the beast.. Thus 
did King Porus ride when he was overthrown by Alexander; and thus 
are also the towered elephants described, (Maccabees, ii. 6.) Upon 
the beasts there were strong towers of wood, which covered every one 
of them, and were girt fast unto them by devices; there were also 
upon every one of them thirty-two strong men, beside the Indian that 
ruled them. 

Others will demand, not only why Alexander upon an elephant, but 
Hector upon an horse ; whereas his manner of fighting, or presenting 
himself in battle, was in a chariot,* as did the other noble Trojans, 
who, as Pliny affirmeth, were the first inventors thereof. The same 
way of fight is testified by Diodorus, and thus delivered by Sir Walter 
Raleigh : " Of the vulgar, little reckoning was made, for' they fough , 
all on foot, slightly armed, and commonly followed the success of their 
captains, who rode not upon horses, but in chariots drawn by two or 
three horses. "f And this was also the ancient way of fight among the 
Britons, as is delivered by Diodorus, Caesar, and Tacitus; and there 
want not some who have taken advantage hereof, and made it one 
argument of their original from Troy. 

Lastly, by any man versed in antiquity, the question can hardly be 
avoided, why the horses of these worthies, especially of Caesar, are 
described with the furniture of great saddles and stirrups ; for saddles, 
largely taken, though some defence there may be, yet that they had not 
the use of stirrups seemeth of lesser doubt; as Pancirollus hath observed, 
as Polydore, Virgil, and Petrus Victorius have confirmed, expressly dis- 
coursing hereon ; as is observable from Pliny, and cannot escape our 
eyes in the ancient monuments, medals, and triumphant arches of the 
Romans. Nor is there any ancient classical word in Latin to express 
them. ****** Polybius, speaking of the way which 
Hannibal marched into Italy, useth the word l3el3r)iJiaTi(7Tat, that is, 
saith Petrus Victorius, it was stored with devices for men to get upon 
their horses, which ascents were termed hemata, and in the life of 
Caius Gracchus, Plutarch expresseth as much. For endeavouring to 
ingratiate himself with the people, besides the placing of stones at 
every mile's end, he made at nearer distances certain elevated places 



* The use of chariots for war and other purposes is of very ancient origin. See Gen. 
xiv. 7, and xlv. 27. 

t History of tlie World. 



Herbert.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 211 

and scalary ascents, that by the help thereof they might with better 
ease ascend or mount their horses. Now if we demand how cavahers, 
then destitute of stirrups, did usually mount their horses, as Lipsius 
informeth, the unable and softer sort of men had their avafioy/iQ, or 
stratores, which helped them upon horseback, as in the practice of 
Crassus, in Plutarch, and Caracalla, in Spartianus, and the later example 
of Valentinianus, who because his horse rose before, that he could not 
be settled on his back, cut off the right hand of his strator. But 
how the active and hardy persons mounted, Vegetius^ resolves us, 
that they used to vault or leap up, and therefore they had wooden 
horses in their houses and abroad, that thereby young men naight 
enable themselves in this action ; wherein by instruction and practice 
they grew so perfect, that they could vault upon the right or left, and 
that with their sword in hand. Julius Pollux adviseth to teach horses 
to incline, dimit, and bow down their bodies, that their riders may with 
better ease ascend them. And thus may it more causally be made 
out what Hippocrates affirmeth of the Scythians, that using continual 
riding they were generally molested with the sciatica, or hip gout. Or 
what Suetonius delivereth of Germanicus, that he had slender legs, 
but increased them by riding after meals ; that is, the humours 
descending upon their pendulosity, they having no support or suppe- 
daneous stability. 

Now if any shall say that these are petty errors and minor lapses, 
not considerably injurious unto truth, yet is it neither reasonable nor safe 
to contemn inferior falsities, but rather as between falsehood and truth 
there is no medium, so should they be maintained in their distances ; 
nor the contagion of the one approach the sincerity of the other. — 
Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Inquiries into Vulgar and Common Errors, 
book V. ch. 13. 



83.— DEMEANOUR IN CHURCH. 

[George Herbert, 1593 — 1633. 
[George Herbert, fifth brother of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, was born at Mont- 
gomery Castle, April 3, 1593, and educated at Westminster and Trinity College, 
Cambridge. He was elected Fellow in 1615, public orator in 1619, and having 
taken orders, was made prebendary of Leighton Bromswold, in 1626. He married 
and obtained the rectory of Bemerton, near Salisbury, in 1630, and died of a 
quotidian ague in February, 1633. His chief work, "The Temple: Sacred Poems 
and Private Ejaculations," was published at Cambridge in 1631. He left a prose 
work, " A Priest to the Temple ; or, the Country Parson, his Character and Rule 
of Holy Life," which appeared in 1652. His Life, by Isaac Walton, appeared in 
1670, and other biographies have been published.] 



* De re Milit. 
P 2 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Herbert. 

Though private prayer be a brave design. 

Yet public hath more promises, more love. 
And love is a weight to hearts ; to eyes, a sign. 

We all are but cold suitors, let us move 
Where it is warmest. Leave thy six and seven ; 
Pray with the most ; for, where most pray, is heaven. 

When once thy feet enters the church, be bare. 

God is more there than thou r for thou art there 
Only by his permission. Then beware ; 

And make thyself all reverence and fear. 
Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings. Quit thy state : 
All equal are within the church's gate. 

Resort to sermons ; but to prayers most : 

Praying is the end of preaching. Oh, be dresl ! 

Stay not for the other pin. Why, thou hast lost 
A joy, for it, worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest 

Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee ; 

Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose, about thee. 

In time of service seal up both thine eyes, 

And send them to thy heart ; that, spying sin. 

They may weep out the stains by them did rise. 
Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in. 

Who marks in church -time others' symmetry. 

Makes all their beauty his deformity. 

Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part. 

Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasures thither. 
Christ purged his Temple -, so must thou thy heart. 

All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together 
To cozen thee. Look to thy actions well ; 
For churches either are heaven or hell. 

Judge not the preacher j for he is thy judge. 

If thou mislike him, thou conceivest him not. 
God calleth preaching, folly. Do not grudge 

To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. 
The worst speak something good. If all want sense, 
God takes a text and preacheth patience. 

He that gets patience, and the blessings which 
Preachers conclude with, hath not lost his pains. 

He that, by being at church, escapes the ditch. 
Which he might fall in by companions, gains. 



ChiUingworth.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 213 

He that loves God's abode, and to combine 

With saints on earth, shall with them one day shine. 

Jest not at preachers' language or expression. 

How know^'st thon but thy sins made him miscarry? 
Then turn thy faults and his into confession. 

God sent him whatsoe'er he be. Oh, tarry 
And love him for his Master ! His condition. 
Though it be ill, makes him no ill physician. 

The Temple. The Church Porch. 



84.— THE RELIGION OF PROTESTANTS. 

[Rev. W. Chillingworth, 1602 — 1644. 
[William Chillingworth, born at Oxford in October, 1602, and educated at the 
Universit}^, was made a Fellow of Trinity College in 1628. He was induced by the 
Jesuit, Fisher, to renounce the Protestant faith, and to join the Jesuit College at 
Douay. In 1631 he left the Roman Catholics, and returned to Oxford.. His 
"Religion of Protestants: a Safe Way to Salvation" appeared in 1635. He was 
made Chancellor of Salisbury in 1639, and during the civil war attached himself to 
the royal cause. At Arundel Castle he was taken prisoner by the parliamentary 
army, and died at the bishop's palace at Chichester Jan. 30, 1644. His life, by Dr. 
Birch, is prefixed to the folio edition of "The Religion of Protestants," published in 
1742, and a complete list of his controversial works is given in Kippis's "Biog. Brit." 
vol. iii. p. 515.] 

When I say the religion of Protestants is in prudence to be preferred 
before yours (the Roman CathoHc), as, on the one side, I do not 
understand by your religion the doctrine of Bellarmine or Baronius, 
or any other private man amongst youj nor tlie doctrine of the Sor- 
bonne, or of the Jesuits, or of the Dominicans, or of any other parti- 
cular company among you, but that wherein you all agree, or profess 
to agree, "The doctrine of the Council of Trent}" so accordingly on 
the other side, by the '^'Religion of Protestants," I do not understand 
the doctrine of Luther, or Calvin, or Melancthon j nor the Confession 
of Augusta, Augsbourg, or Geneva, nor the Catechism of Heidelberg, 
nor the Articles of the Church of England, no, nor the harmony of 
Protestant confessions; but that wherein they all agree, and which 
they all subscribe with a greater harmony, as a perfect rule of their 
taith and actions; that is, the Bible. The Bible, I say, the Bible 
only, is the religion of Protestants ! AVhatsoever else they believe besides 
it, and the plain, irrefragable, indubitable consequences of it, well may 
they hold it as a matter of opinion ; but as matter of faith and reli- 
gion, neither can they with coherence to their owai grounds believe it 



214 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Stephen. 

themselves, nor require the behef of it of others, without most high 
and most schismatical presumption. I for my part, after a long and 
(as I verily believe and hope) impartial search of " the true way to 
eternal happiness," do profess plainly that I cannot find any rest to the 
sole of my foot but upon this rock only. I see plainly and with mine 
own eyes, that there are popes against popes, councils against councils, 
some fathers against others, the same fathers against themselves, the 
consent of fathers of one age against the consent of fathers of another 
age, the church of one age against the church of another age. Traditive 
interpretations of Scripture are pretended ; but there are few or none 
to be found : no tradition, but only of Scripture, can derive itself 
from the fountain, but may be plainly proved either to have been 
brought in, in such an age after Christ, or that in such an age it was 
not in. In a word, there is no sufficient certainty but of Scripture 
only for any considering man to build upon. This therefore, and this 
only, I have reason to believe: this I will profess, according to this I 
will live, and for this, if there be occasion, I will not only willingly, 
but even gladly, lose my life, though I should be sorry that Christians 
should take it from me. Propose me anything out of this Book, and 
require whether 1 believe it or no, and seem it never so incomprehen- 
sible to human reason, I will subscribe it with hand and heart, as 
knowing no demonstration can be stronger than this ; God hath said 
so, therefore it is true. In other things I will take no man's liberty 
of judgment from him -, neither shall any man take mine from me. 
I will think no man the worse man, nor the worse Christian, I will 
love no man the less, from differing in opinion from me. And what 
measure I mete to others, I expect from them again. I am fully 
assured that God does not, and therefore that man ought not, to 
require any more of any man than this, to believe the Scripture to be 
God's word, to endeavour to find the true sense of it, and to live 
according to it. 

This is the religion which I have chosen after a long deliberation, 
and I am verily persuaded that I have chosen wisely, much more 
wisely, than if I had guided myself according to your church's autho- 
rity. — The Religion of Protestants, ch. vi. § j6. 



85.— PASCAL'S PROVINCIAL LETTERS. 

[Stephen, 1789 — 1859. 
[James Stephen, whose father was a Master in Chancery, was born in 1789. Educated 
at Trinity Hall, Cambridge,* he was afterwards called to the bar. He held various offi- 
cial appointments, commencing as counsel of the Colonial Department, and was made 



Stephen.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 215 

permanent Under-Secretary to the Colonies. On his retirement in 1847, he received 
the honour of knighthood. His contributions to the "Edinburgh Review" were 
pubhshed in 1849, under the title "Essays in Ecclesiastical Biography." He was 
made Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge in 1849. 
His "Lectures on the History of France" appeared in Nov. 1851. Sir James 
Stephen died at Coblentz, Sept. 16, 1859.] 

In the whole compass of literature, ancient and modern, there is pro- 
bably nothing in the same style which could bear a comparison with 
tlie "Provincial Letters." Their peculiar excellence can be illus- 
trated only by the force of contrast 5 and, in that sense, the '' Letters 
of Junius" may afford the illustration. 

To either series of anonymous satires must be ascribed the praise of 
exquisite address, and of irresistible vigour. Each attained an imme- 
diate and a lasting popularity 3 and each has exercised a powerful influ- 
ence on the literature of succeeding times. But here all resemblance 
ends. No writer ever earned so much fame as Junius with so little 
claim to the respect or gratitude of his readers. He embraced no 
large principles 5 he awakened no generous feelings 3 he scarcely advo- 
cated any great social interest. He gives equally little proof of the 
love of man, and of the love of books. He contributed nothing to 
the increase of knowledge, and but seldom ministered to blameless de- 
light. His topics and his thoughts were all of the passing day. His 
invective is merciless and extravagant ; and the veil of public spirit is 
barely thrown over his personal antipathies and inordinate self-esteem. 
No man was ever so greatly indebted to mere style ; yet, with all its 
recommendations, his is a style eminently vicious. It is laboured, 
pompous, antithetical — never self-forgetful, never flowing freely, never 
in repose. The admiration he extorts is yielded grudgingly 3 nor is 
there any book so universally read which might become extinct with 
so little loss to the world as "The Letters of Junius." 

Reverse all this, and you have the characteristics of the " Provincial 
Letters." Their language is but the transparent, elastic, unobtrusive 
medium of thought. It moves with such quiet gracefulness as entirely 
to escape attention, until the matchless perspicacity of discussions, so 
incomprehensible under any management but his, forces on the mind 
an inquiry into the causes of so welcome a phenomenon. Pascal's wit, 
even when most formidable, is so tempered by kindness, as to show 
that the infliction of pain, however salutary, was a reluctant tribute to 
his supreme love of truth. His playfulness is the buoyancy of a heart 
which has no burden to throw off, and is gay without effort. His in- 
dignation is never morose, vindictive, or supercilious : it is but philan- 
thropy, kindling into righteous anger and generous resentment, and 
imparting to them a tone of awful majesty. The unostentatious 



2i6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Sidney. 

master of all learning, he finds recreation in toils which would para- 
lyse an ordinary understanding, yet so sublimated is that learning with 
the spirit of philosophy, as to make him heedless of whatever is trivial, 
transient, and minute, except as it suggests or leads to what is compre- 
hensive and eternal. 

But the canons of mere literary criticism were never designed to 
measure that which constitutes the peculiar greatness of the author of 
the " Provincial Letters." His own claim was to be tried by his peers — 
by those who in common with him, possess a mental vision purified by 
contemplating that light in which is no darkness at all, and affections 
enlarged by a benevolence which, having its springs in heaven, has no 
limits to its diffusion on earth. Among his ascetic brethren in the 
valley of Port- Royal, he himself recognised the meet, if not the im- 
partial, judges of his labours. They hailed with transport an ally who, 
to their own sanctity of manners, and to more than their own genius, 
added popular arts to which they could make no pretension. We 
infer, indeed, though doubtfully, that they were taught by the excellent 
M. Singlin to regard and censure such exultation as merely human. 
That great spiritual anatomist probably rebuked and punished the glee 
which could not but agitate the innermost folds of Arnauld's heart, as 
he read his apologist's exquisite analysis of the Pouvoir Prockain and of 
the Graces suffisantes qui ne sont pas efficaces. For history records 
the misgivings of Mademoiselle Pascal on the question, whether M. 
Singlin would put up with the indomitable gaiety which would still 
chequer with some gleams of mirth her brother's cell at Les Granges, 
even after his preternatural ingenuity had been exhausted in rendering 
it the most desolate and cheerless of human abodes. — Essay vi. The 
Port Royalists. 






86.— THE STORM AT SEA. 

[Sir Philip Sidney, 1554 — 1586. 

[Philip Sidney, called by Sir Walter Raleigh the English Petrarch, born at Penshurst, 
in Kent, Nov, 29, 1554, went to school at Shrewsbury in 1564, entered at Christ- 
church, Oxford, in 1569, and afterwards studied at Cambridge. In 1572 he set out 
on his travels, and did not return to England until May, 1575. Having held various 
appointments, he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth in 1583, and made by her 
Governor of Flushing in 1585. In an encounter near Zutphen, September 22, 
1586, he received a wound, and after lingering some days, died (October 7) in the 
arms of his wife, the only daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, to whom he had 
been married in 1583. His body was brought to England, and, after lying in state, 
was interred with great ceremony in Old St. Paul's Cathedral, February 16, 1587. 
None of his works ai)pearc(l during his lifetime. "The Arcadia," written at Wilton, 
was published in 1590 under the title "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia." 



Sidney.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 217 

" Astrophel and Stella/' written in 1581, first appeared in 1591. "The Defence of 
Poesie/*' composed in 1581, was published in 1595. Sir Philip Sidney contributed 
several small poems to collections of the period. Hallam (Lit. Hist, part ii. ch. 7) 
calls him "the first good prose writer in any positive sense of the word/' and says 
of his " Defence of Poesie/' " The great praise of Sidney in this treatise is, that he 
has shown the capacity of the English language for spirit, variety, gracious idiom, 
and masculine firmness." His life, by Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, was published 
in 1652, by Thomas Zouch in 1808, by Julius Lloyd in 1862, and by H. R. F. 
Bourne in 1862. A notice of this writer appears in Fuller's " Worthies," in Wood's 
" Athen. Oxon.," and in "The Retrospective Review," vols. ii. and x.] 

But bj that the next morning began a little to make a gilded show of 
a good meaning, there arose even with the sun, a vail of dark clouds 
before his face, which shortly, like ink poured into w^ater, had blacked 
over all the face of heaven 3 preparing as it w^ere a mournful stage for 
a tragedy to be played on. For forthwith the wqnds began to speak 
louder, and as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves fittest 
instruments of commandment 3 and blowing w^hole storm^s of hail and 
rain upon them, they were sooner in danger than they could almost 
bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to 
swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the heaven 
favoured them, it had lain so calmly, making mountains of itself, over 
w^hich the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be straight carried 
down again to a pit of hellish darkness 3 with such cruel blows against 
the sides of the ship, that, which way so ever it went, was still in his 
mahce, that there was left neither power to stay, nor way to escape. 
And shortly had it so dissevered the loving company, which the day 
before had tarried together, that most of them never met again, but 
w'ere swallowed up in his never-satisfied mouth. Some, indeed, as 
since was knowm, after long w^andering, returned into Thessalia ; others 
recovered Bi%antium, and served E?iarcJius in his w^ar. But in the 
ship wherein the princes were, now left as much alone as proud lords 
be wdien fortune fails them, though they employed all industry to save 
themselves, yet w4iat they did w^as rather for duty to nature than hope 
to escape so ugly a darkness as if it would prevent the night's coming, 
usurped the day's right, which, accompanied sometimes wdth thunders, 
always with horrible noises of the chasing winds, made the masters 
and pilots so astonished, that they knew not how to direct 3 and if 
they knew, they could scarcely, when they directed, hear their own 
whistle. For the sea strove with the winds which should be louder, 
and the shrouds of the ship, with a gastfal noise to them that 
were in it, witnessed that their ruin w^as the wager of the others con- 
tention, and the heaven roaring out thunder the more amazed them, 
as having those powers for enemies. Certainly there is no danger 
carries with it more honour than that which grows in those floating- 



2i8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Foxe. 

kingdoms. For that dwelling-place is unnatural to mankind : and 
then the terribleness of the continual motion, the desolation of the far- 
being from comfort, the eye and the ear having ugly images ever 
before it, doth still vex the mind even when it is best armed against it. 
But thus the day past, if that might be called day, while the cunningest 
mariners were so conquered by the storm, as they thought it best with 
stricken sails to yield to be governed by it 3 the valiantest feeling in- 
ward dismayedness, and yet the fearfuUest ashamed fully to show it, 
seeing that the princes, who were to part from the greatest fortunes, did 
in their countenances accuse no point of fear, but encouraging them to 
do what might be done, putting their hands to every most painful office, 
taught them at one instant to promise themselves the best, and yet to 
despise the worst. But so were they carried by the tyranny of the 
wind, and the treason of the sea all that night, which the elder it was, 
the more wayward it showed itself towards them : till the next morn- 
ing known to be a morning better by the hour-glass than by the day's 
clearness, having run fortune as blindly as itself ever was painted, least 
the conclusion should not answer to the rest of the play, they were 
driven upon a rock, which, hidden with those outrageous waves, did, as it 
were, closely dissemble his cruel mind, till with an unbelieved violence, 
but to them that have tried it, the ship ran upon it 3 and seeming 
willingerto perish than to have her course stayed, redoubled her blows 
till she had broken herself in pieces, and, as it were, tearing out her 
own bowels to feed the sea's greediness, left nothing with it but 
despair of safety and expectation of a loathsome end. There was to be 
seen the divers manner of minds in distress : some sat upon the top of 
the poop weeping and wailing till the sea swallowed them 3 some one 
more able to abide death, than fear of death, cut his own throat to pre- 
vent drowning ; some prayed, and there wanted not of them which 
cursed, as if the heavens could not be more angry than they were. 
But a monstrous cry begotten of many roaring voices, was able to 
infect with fear a mind that had not prevented it with the power of 
reason. — The Arcadia. Book ii. 



87.— WOLSEY'S EXACTIONS. 

[Rev. J. Foxe, 1517 — 1587. 

[John Foxe, commonly called the Martyrologist, was born at Boston, in Lincolnshire, 
in 1517; was educated at Oxford, and became Fellow of Magdalen College in 1543. 
He was deprived of his fellowship July 22, 1545, and travelled abroad till the accession 
of Elizabeth, when he became a prebend of Salisbury. The first part of his " History 
of the Acts and Monuments of the Church," otherwise called " Foxe's Book of 



I 



Foxe,] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 219 

Martyrs," was published atStrasburg in 1554, and the first English edition in 1562-3. 
His " Ecclesiastical History^" appeared in 1570. Foxe died April 18, 1587. His 
life, by S. R. Cadey, was published, with an edition of his work, 1843-9.] 

This glorious cardinal, in his tragical doings, did exceed so far all 
measure of a good subject, that he became more like a prince than a 
priest ; for although the King bore the sword, yet he bore the stroke, 
making (in a manner) the whole realm to bend at his beck, and to 
dance after his pipe. Such practices and fetches he had, that when he 
had well stored his own coffers first, he fetched the greatest part of 
the king's treasure out of the realm, in twelve great barrels full of 
gold and silver, to serve the Pope's wars : and, as his avaricious mind 
was never satisfied with getting, as his restless head was so busy, 
ruffling in public matters, that he never ceased before he had set 
both England, France, Flanders, Spain, and Italy, together by the ears. 

Thus this Legate well following the steps of his master, the Pope, 
and both of them well declaring the nature of their religion, under 
the pretence of tlie Church, practised great hypocrisy ; and under the 
authority of the king, he used great extortion, with excessive taxes 
and loans, and valuation of every man's substance, so pilling the 
commons and merchants, that every man complained, but no redress 
was had. Neither yet were the churchmen altogether free from the 
pill-axe and poU-axe 3 from the pilling and polling, I mean, of this 
cardinal, who, under his power legantine, gave by preventions all 
benefices belonging to spiritual persons ; by which, hard it is to say, 
whether he purchased to himself more riches or hatred of the 
spiritualty. So far his license stretched, that he had power to suppress 
divers abbeys, priories, and monasteries 3 and so he did, taking from 
them all their goods, movables, and unmovables, except it were a little 
pension, left only to the heads of certain houses. By the said power 
legantine, he kept also general visitations through the realm, sending 
Doctor John Alein, his chaplain, riding in his gown of velvet, and 
with a great train, to visit all religious houses 3 whereat the friars 
observ^ant, much grudged, and would in nowise condescend thereunto 3 
wherefore they were openly accursed at Paul's Cross, by Friar Forest, 
one of the same order 3 so that the cardinal at length prevailed both 
against them and all others. Against whom great disdain arose among 
the people, perceiving how, by visitations, making of abbots, probates of 
testaments, granting of faculties, licenses, and other pollings in his 
courts legantine, he had made his treasure equal with the king's, and 
yet every year he sent great sums to Rome. And this was their daily 
talk against the cardinal. 

Besides many other matters and grievances which stirred the hearts 
of the commons against the cardinal, this was one which much 



220 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Kinglake. 

pinched them -, for that the said cardinal had sent out certain straight 
commissions in the King's name, that every man should pay the sixth 
part of his goods. Whereupon there followed great mutterings amongst 
the commons 3 in such sort, that it had almost grown to some riotous 
commotion or tumult, especially in the parts of Suffolk, had not the 
Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, with wisdom and gentleness stepped in 
and appeased the same. 

Another thing that nibbed the stomachs of many, or rather which 
moved them to laugh at the cardinal, was this : to see his insolent 
presumption, so highly to take upon him, as the King's chief coun- 
cillor, to set a reformation in the order of the King's household, making 
and establishing new ordinances in the same. He likewise made new 
officers in the house of the Duke of E.ichmond, which was then newly 
begun. In like manner, he ordained a council, and established 
another household for the Lady Mary, then being princess 5 so that ail 
things were done by his consent, and by none other. All this, with much 
mxore, he took upon him, making the King believe that all should be 
to his honour, and that he needed not to take any pains ; insomuch that 
the charge of all things was committed unto him : whereat many 
men smiled, to see his great folly and presumption. 

At this time the cardinal gave the King the lease of the manor of 
Hampton Court, which he had of the lord of St. John's, and on which 
he had done great cost. Therefore the King again, of his gentle 
nature, licensed him to lie in his manor of Richmond -, and so he lay 
there certain times. But when the common people, and especially 
such as were King Henry the Seventh's servants, saw the cardinal 
keep house in the royal manor of Richmond, which King Henry the 
Seventh so much esteemed, it was a marvel to hear how they 
grudged, saying, " See, a butcher's dog lies in the manor of Richmond !" 
These, with many other opprobrious words, were spoken against the 
cardinal, whose pride was so high, thac he regarded nothing : yet he 
was hated of all men." — Acts and Monuments, 



88.— LADY HESTER STANHOPE AND THE ARABS. 

[Kinglake, 1811. 

[Alexander William Kinglake, born at Taunton in 1802, wa.s educated at Eton 
and Trinity College, Cambridge, and was called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1837. 
His first work, " Eothen," an account of Eastern travel, was published in 1844. He 
retired from the bar in 1856, and was elected member for Bridgewater in 1857. The 
first portion of a " History of the Russian War, 1854-6," appeared in 1863. Mr. 
Kinglake has contributed to the " Quarterly Review " and other periodicals.] 



Kinglake.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 221 

For hours and hours this wondrous white woman poured forth her 
speech, for the most part concerning sacred and profane mysteries ; 
but every now and then she would stay her lofty flight, and swoop 
down upon the world again : whenever this happened, I was interested 
in her conversation. 

She adverted more than once to the period of her lost sway amongst 
the Arabs, and mentioned some of the circumstances that aided her in 
obtaining influence with the wandering tribes. The Bedouin, so often 
engaged in irregular warfare, strains his eyes to the horizon in search of 
a coming enemy, just as habitually as the sailor keeps his '' bright look- 
out" for a strange sail. In the absence of telescopes, a far-reaching 
sight is highly valued J and Lady Hester Stanhope had this power. 
She told me that on one occasion when there was good reason to expect 
hostilities, a far-seeing Arab created great excitement in the camp by 
declaring that he could distinguish some moving objects upon the very 
farthest point within the reach of his eyes ; Lady Hester was consulted, 
and she instantly assured her comrades in arms that there were indeed 
a number of horses within sight, but that they were without riders. 
The assertion proved to be correct ; and from that time forth, her 
superiority over all others, in respect of far sight, remained undisputed. 

Lady Hester related this other anecdote of her Arab life. It was 
when the heroic qualities of the Englishwoman were just beginning to 
be felt amongst the people of the desert, that she was marching one 
day, along with the forces of the tribe to which she had allied herself. 
She perceived that preparations for an engagement were going on • 
and upon her making inquiry as to the cause, the Sheik at first affected 
mystery and concealment, but at last confessed that war had been 
declared against his tribe, on account of its alliance with the English 
princess, and that they were now unfortunately about to be attacked 
by a very superior force : he made it appear that Lady Hester was 
the sole cause of hostility betwixt his tribe and the impending enemy, 
and that his sacred duty of protecting the Englishwoman whom he 
had admitted as his guest, was the only obstacle which prevented an 
amicable settlement of the dispute. The Sheik hinted that his tribe 
was likely to sustain an almost overwhelming blow, but at the same 
time declared that no fear of the consequences, however terrible to 
him and his whole people, should induce him to dream of abandoning 
his illustrious guest. The heroine instantly took her part : it was not 
for her to be a source of danger to her friends, but rather to her enemies j 
so she resolved to turn away from the people, and trust for help to none, 
save only her haughty self. The Sheiks affected to dissuade her from so 
rash a course, and fairly told her, that although they (having been freed 
from her presence) would be able to make good terms for themselves 



222 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hobbes. 

yet that there were no means of allaying the hostility felt towards her, 
and that the whole face of the desert would be swept by the horsemen 
of her enemies so carefully as to make her escape into other districts 
almost impossible. The brave woman was not to be moved by terrors 
of this kind ; and, bidding farewell to the tribe which had honoured 
and protected her, she turned her horse's head, and rode straight away, 
without friend or follower. Hours had elapsed, and for some time she 
had been alone in the centre of the round horizon, when her quick 
eye perceived some horsemen in the distance. The party came nearer 
and nearer ; soon it was plain that they were making towards her ; 
and presently some hundreds of Bedouins, fully armed, galloped up to 
her, ferociously shouting, and apparently intending to take her life at 
the instant with their pointed spears. Her face at the time was 
covered with the yashmack, according to Eastern usage ; but at the 
moment when the foremost of the horsemen had all but reached her 
with their spears, she stood up in her stirrups, withdrew the yashmack 
that veiled the terrors of her countenance, waved her arm slowly and 
disdainfully, and cried out, with a loud voice, "Avaunt!"* The 
horsemen recoiled from her glance, but not in terror. The threatening 
yells of the assailants were suddenly changed for loud shouts of joy 
and admiration at the bravery of the stately Englishwoman, and 
festive gun-shots were fired on all sides around her honoured head. 
The truth was, that the party belonged to the tribe with which she 
had allied herself, and that the threatened attack, as well as the 
pretended apprehension of an engagement, had been contrived for the 
mere purpose of testing her courage. The day ended in a great feast, 
prepared to do honour to the heroine ; and from that time her power 
over the minds of the people grew rapidly. Lady Hester related this 
story with great spirit ; and I recollect that she put up her yashmack 
for a moment, in order to give me a better idea of the effect which 
she produced by suddenly revealing the awfulness of her countenance. 
— Eothen, ch. viii. 



89.— PRECISION OF LANGUAGE. 

[Hobbes, 1588 — 1679. 

[Thomas Hobbes was born at Malmesbury April 5, 1588. Educated at Magdalen 
Hall, Oxford, he became private tutor in Lord Hardwicke's (afterwards Earl of 
Devonshire) family in 1608. He was intimate with Lord Bacon, Lord Herbert of 



* She spoke it, I dare say, in English. The words would not be the less effective for 
being spoken in an unknown tongue. Lady Hester, I believe, never learnt to speak the 
Arabic with a perfect accent. 



ftoboes.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 223 

Cherbury, Ben Jonson, and Descartes. His translation of " Thucydides " appeared in 
1628, and his " Elementa Philosophica de Give" was published at Paris in 1642^ and a 
second edition was published in Holland in 1647. In the latter year Hobbes was ap- 
pointed mathematical tutor to the Prince of Wales, afterwards Charles II. His treatises, 
entitled " Human Nature," and " De Corpore Politico," appeared in London in 1650, 
and the " Leviathan" in 165 1. Soon after the Restoration a pension of looZ. per annum 
was settled on Hobbes, and in 1666 his " Leviathan " and " De Give" were censured 
by Parliament. He wrote his life in Latin verse in 1672, and published his transla- 
tion of Homer in 1675. A memoir is prefixed to the folio edition of his " Moral 
and Political Works " published in 1759. Hobbes, called, from the place of his 
birth, the Philosopher of Malmesbury, died Dec. 4, 1679, in his ninety-second 
year. An edition of his English and Latin works, first collected and edited by 
Sir William Molesworth, appeared in 1839-45. Dr. Warburton termed him 
the terror of his age, and Hallam (Lit. His., Part iii. ch. 3, § 154) says: — 
" In nothing does Hobbes deserve more credit than in having set an example 
of close observation in the philosophy of the human mind. If he errs, he errs 
like a man who goes a little out of the right track, not like one who has set out in a 
wrong one. The eulogy of Stewart on Descartes, that he was the father of this 
experimental psychology, cannot be strictly wrested from him by Hobbes, inasmuch 
as the publications of the former are of an earlier date ; but we may fairly say that 
the latter began as soon, and prosecuted his inquiries farther. It seems natural to 
presume that Hobbes, who is said to have been employed by Bacon in translating 
some of his works into Latin, had at least been led by him to the inductive process 
which he has more than any other employed. But he has seldom mentioned his 
predecessor's name ; and indeed his mind was of a different stamp ; less excursive, 
less quick in discovering analogies, and less fond of reasoning from them, but more 
close, perhaps more patient, and more apt to follow up a predominant idea, which 
sometimes becomes one of the ' idola speciis ' that deceived him."] 

Seeing that truth consisteth in the right ordering of names in our 
affirmations, a man that seeketh precise truth had need to remember 
what every name he useth stands for, and to place it accordingly, or 
else he will find himself entangled in words, as a bird in lime twigs, 
the more he struggles the more belimed. And therefore in geometry, 
which is the only science that it hath pleased God hitherto to bestow 
on mankind, men begin at settling the significations of their words j 
which settling of significations they call definitions, and place them in 
the beginning of their reckoning. 

By this it appears how necessary it is for any man that aspires to 
true knowledge, to examine the definitions of former authors 3 and 
either to correct them where they are negligently set down, or to make 
them himself. For the errors of definitions multiply themselves according 
as the reckoning proceeds, and lead men into absurdities, which at last 
they see, but cannot avoid, without reckoning anew from the begin- 
ning, in which lies the foundation of their errors. From whence it 
happens, that they which trust to books, do as they that cast up many 
little sums into a greater, without considering whether those little sums 
were rightly cast up or not ; and at last finding the error visible, and 
not mistrusting their first grounds, know not which way to clear 



224 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Gascoigne. 

themselves, but spend time in fluttering over their books ; as birds that 
entering by the chimney, and finding themselves enclosed in a chamber, 
flutter at the false light of a glass v^dndow, for want of wit to consider 
which way they came in. So that in the right definition of names lies 
the first use of speech j which is the acquisition of science; and 
in wrong, or no definitions, lies the first abuse ; from which proceed all 
false and senseless tenets 3 which make those men that take their 
instruction from the authority of books, and not from their own 
meditation, to be as much below the condition of ignorant men, as men 
endued with true science are above it. For between true science and 
erroneous doctrines, ignorance is in the middle. Natural sense and 
imagination are not subject to absurdit)\ Nature itself cannot err ; 
and as men abound in copiousness of language, so they become more 
wise, or more mad than ordinar)^ Nor is it possible without 
letters for any man to become either excellently wise, or, unless his 
memory be hurt by disease or ill constitution of organs, excellently 
foolish. For words are wise men's counters, they do but reckon by 
them j but they are the money of fools, that value them by the 
authority of an Aristotle, a Cicero, or a Thomas,* or any other doctor 
whatsoever, if but a man. — Leviathan, part i. ch. iv. 



90.— C H R I S T M A S . 

[Mrs. Gascoigne, 1813- 
[Mrs. Gascoigne, youngest daughter of John Smith, M.P,, of Dale Park, born in 
1813, and married to General Gascoigne in 1834, was, at an early age, distinguished 
for her devotion to literature. Her first work, " Temptation, or a Wife's Perils," 
appeared in .1839, ^^^ '^^ attributed to several authors of note, and, amongst others, 
to the Hon. Mrs. Norton. "The School for Wives" appeared in 1842, *•' Evelyn 
Harcourt" in 1847, and " Belgravia," a poem, in 1851. " Spencer's Cross Manor 
House," a child's story, " Recollections and Tales of the Crystal Palace," a poem, and 
"The Next-door Neighbours," a novel, appeared in 1852. Mrs. Gascoigne has con- 
tributed to " All the Year Round," and other periodicals. " Doctor Harold," a novel, 
was published in 1865.] 

But turn we now, to a more gladsome strain. 

For Christmas comes, and pleasures in its train ; 

Thrice happy Christmas, with its festive mirth. 

Its heavenly message, ' Peace — good will on earth' — 

Blest be the welcome season ! blest to all 

Its glad event — its glorious festival ! 

Nor rich nor poor at this bright time should mourn ; 

For all alike the Saviour Child was born ; 



Aquinas, called the Angelic Doctor, born 1224; died March 7, 1274. 



Gascoigne.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 225 

And though some hearts be sad — some eyes be dim. 

Yet shall He comfort all who come to Him, 

And at His bidding, inward strife shall cease. 

As once the storm was stayed — and all was peace. 

Lo ! now the day is come — the wished- for day. 

And all this Christian land shines bright and gay. 

Aromid Belgravia's thousand homes, the voice 

Of joy and health is heard, and bids rejoice. 

From heart to heart the kindly wish is sped. 

The rich are merry, and the poor are fed. 

The toiling artisan can thankful share 

The general rest, and eat his Christmas fare j 

The smoke-dried shopman to the country hies. 

And revels in the sight of clear blue skies j 

The weary clerk, who scribbles all the year. 

Can take the pen from his enduring ear 

And banquet on the bird, by whose grey wing 

He earns the pittance that the feast can bring. 

The pallid usher, worn with ceaseless noise. 

And freed at length from fifty graceless boys. 

His aged mother seeks, and by her side 

Forgets his wretched lot, his injured pride. 

Looks with a hopeful eye to better things. 

And feels the grateful peace that Christmas brings. 

Each jocund school-boy to his home departs. 

To be received by longing, loving hearts. 

To sport and feast at will, and, if he can. 

Ride, drive, skate, dance — and be in all a man. 

The statesman, burthened with a nation's cares. 

For this one day that nation's quiet shares. 

Casts off the onerous weight of public life. 

And smiles his own old smile upon his wife j 

Watches with secret joy his children's play. 

And in tliese hours of peace, rejoices more than they. 

Nor is the female world less full of glee 3 

The moping governess at last is free. 

And from the schoolroom, where with patient mind. 

She daily drudges, " cabined, cribbed, confined," 

Comes forth — unwonted smiles upon her face. 

And in the railroad takes a first-class place j 

To London hies, and there with cherished friends, 

A joyous Christmas, gay with pleasures, spends j 

Q 



226 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Gascoigne. 

Dances the old year out, and new year in. 

And, like her betters, seeks fond hearts to win. 

Hails blest Vacuna's* short but welcome reign. 

And dreads return to plodding life again. 

Meanwhile her pupils, wild with youthful glee. 

Like her, enjoy the sweets of liberty. 

Revel in games, charades, and endless fun. 

And do much mischief, leaving tasks undone j 

Lament, like her, the hours' too swift career. 

And wish that Christmas lasted all the year. 

The sempstress, pale with toil and scanty fare. 

Creeps forth to revel in the ambient air. 

Glad — for this day hath brought its wonted treat. 

One rare for her — a taste of wholesome meat. 

The cloak-room damsel, who with well-built shape 

Fits on all day the mantle, shawl, and cape. 

Surveying in the glass with flippant stare 

First her own form, and then the whisp'ring Fair, 

Rude to the set her practised eye deems poor. 

Cringing to those whose purse is full and sure — 

E'en she at length is free, and can to-day 

Her figure to the out- door world display. 

Can don her own smart shawl — the shop forget. 

And spend her hours with some congenial set. 

The ancient spinster, who in country town. 

Has one small tenement she calls her own. 

Boasts now a guest — her favourite brother — come 

To spend his Christmas in her humble home. 

Together they discourse of bygone years. 

Of buried parents — former hopes and fears — 

Each past event — each ancient hope and pain. 

Till, as they talk, their youth returns again. 

And they forget how soon the mouldering stone 

That bears those honoured names, must bear their own. 

Thus all are happy. On this happiest day. 
Sorrow and toil alike seem scared away. 
And a short respite from distress and fear 
Marks this bright period of the Christian's year. 

Belgravia, 



* Vacuna, the Goddess of Vacations, whose festival was in December. 



Aiford.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 227 



91.— THE HOUSEHOLD OF A CHRISTIAN. 

[Rev. Dr. Alford, 1810. 
[Henry Alford, born in London in 1810, was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. 
His firstwork," Poems and Poetical Fragments/' appeared in 1831 ; "The School of the 
Heart," and other poems in 1835. He became Fellow of his College in 1835, ^^^ from 
that year till 1853 was Vicar of Wymeswold, Leicestershire. In 1841 he was Hul- 
sean Lecturer in the University of Cambridge, and Examiner of Logic and Moral 
Philosophy in the University of London from 1841-1857. The hrst volume of his 
Greek Testament appeared in 1841. In 1853 he was appointed Minister of Quebec 
Chapel, and in 1857 Dean of Canterbury. In addition to the afore-mentioned pub- 
lications. Dr. Aiford is the author of many sermons and other works.] 

The household is not an accident of nature, but an ordinance of God. 
Even nature's processes, could we penetrate their secrets, figure forth 
spiritual truths 5 and her highest and noblest arrangements are but the 
representations of the most glorious of those truths. That very state 
out of which the household springs, is one, as Scripture and the Church 
declare to us, not to be taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, 
seeing that it sets forth and represents to us the relation between Christ 
and his Church. The household is a representation, on a small scale, 
as regards numbers, but not as regards the interests concerned, of the 
great family in heaven and earth. Its whole relations and mutual 
duties are but reflexions of those which subsist between the Redeemer 
and the people for whom He hath given Himself. The household, 
then, is not an institution whose duties spring from beneath — from the 
necessities of circumstances merely j but it is an appointment of God, 
whose laws are His laws, and whose members owe direct account to 
Him. The father of a household stands most immediately in God's 
place. His is the post of greatest responsibility, of greatest influence 
for good or for eviL His it is, in the last resort, to fix and determine 
the character which his household shall bear. According as he is good 
or bad, godly or ungodly, selfish or self-denying, so will for the most 
part the complexion of the household be also. As he values that which 
is good, not in his professions, for which no one cares, but in his 
practice, which all observe, so will it most likely be valued also by his 
family as they grow up and are planted out in the world. Of all the 
influences which can be brought to bear on man, paternal influence 
may be made the strongest and most salutary : and whether so made 
or not, is ever of immense weight one way or the other.. For remem- 
ber, that paternal influence is not that which the father strives to exeri; 
merely, but that which in matter of fact he does exert. That superior 
life, ever moving in advance of the young and observing and imitative 
life of all of us, that source from which all our first ideas came, that 
voice which sounded deeper into our hearts than all other voices, 

a 2 



228 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Alford. 

ilay by day, year by year, through all our tender and plastic childhood, 
will all through life, almost in spite of ourselves, still keep in advance 
of us, still continue to sound : no other example will ever take so firm 
hold, no other superiority be ever so vividly and constantly felt. And 
again remember, this example goes for what it is really worth. Words 
do not set it — religious phrases do not give it its life and power — it is 
not a thing of display and effort, but of inner realities, and recurring 
acts and habits. It is not the raving of the wind round the precipice, 
— not the sunrise and sunset, clothing it with golden glory, — which 
moulded it and gave it its worn and rounded form : but the unmarked 
dropping of the silent waters, the melting of the yearly snows, the 
gushing of the inner springs. And so it will be, not that which the 
outward eye sees in him, not that which men repute him, not public 
praise, nor public blame, that will enhance or undo a father's influence 
in his household ; but that which he really is in the hearts of his 
family : that which they know of him in private : the worth to which 
they can testify, but which the outer world never saw ; the affections 
which flow in secret, of which they know the depth, but others only 
the surface. And so it will be likewise with a father's religion. None 
so keen to see into a man's religion, as his own household. He may 
deceive others without J he may deceive himself: he can hardly long 
succeed in deceiving them. If religion with him be merely a thing 
put on : an elaborate series of outward duties, attended to for ex- 
pediency's sake, — something fitting his children, but not equally fitting 
him : O, none will so soon and 50 thoroughly learn to appreciate this, 
as those children themselves : there is not any fact which, when dis- 
covered, will have so baneful an effect on their young lives, as such an 
appreciation. No amount of external devotion will ever counter- 
balance it : no use of religious phraseology, nor converse with rehgious 
people without. But if, on the other hand, his religion is really a thing 
in his heart : if he moves about day by day as seeing One invisible : if 
the love of Christ is really warming the springs of his inner life, then, 
however inadequately this is shown in matter or in manner, it will be 
sure to be known and thoroughly appreciated by those who are ever 
living their lives around him. — Quebec Chapel Sermons, xxvi. Sermon 
on Joshua, xxiv. 15. 



Smith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 229 



92.— OF THE ORIGIN AND USE OF MONEY. 

[Adam Smith, 1723 — 1790. 
[Adam Smith, who is said to have laid the foundation of the science of political 
economy, was born at Kircaldy, June 5, 1723, and received his education at the 
grammar-school of his native town, the University of Glasgow and Balliol College, 
Oxford. He took up his residence at Edinburgh in 1748, and was elected Professor 
of Logic in the University of Glasgow in 1751, and Professor of Moral Philosophy in 
1752. His "Theory of Moral Sentiments" appeared in 1759. In 1764 Adam Smith 
accompanied the Duke of Buccleugh on a continental tour which lasted three years. 
The first edition of the "Inquiry into the Nacure and Causes of the Wealth of 
Nations" appeared in 1776, and the third edition, withseveral additions, in 1784. The 
rectorship of the University of Glasgow was conferred upon him in 1787. On 
receiving in 1788 the appointment of one of the Commissioners of Customs for 
Scotland, Adam Smith again took up his residence in Edinburgh, where he died July 
8, 1790. His life, by Dugald Stewart, was published in 1795, and another life, by W. 
Play fair, in 1805.] 

When the division of labour has been once thoroughly established, it is 
but a very small part of a man's wants which the produce of his own 
labour can supply. He supplies the far greater part of them by ex- 
changing that surplus part of the produce of his own labour, which is 
over and above his own consumption, for such parts of the produce of 
other men's labour as he has occasion for. Every man thus lives by 
exchanging, or becomes in some measure a merchant, and the society 
itself gro\^'s to be what is properly a commercial society. 

But when the division of labour first began to take place, this power 
of exchanging must frequently have been very much clogged and 
embarrassed in its operations. One man, we shall suppose, has more 
of a certain commodity than he himself has occasion for, while another 
has less. The former consequently would be glad to dispose of, and 
the latter to purchase, a part of this superfluity. But if this latter 
should chance to have nothing that the former stands in need of, no 
exchange can be made between them. The butcher has more meat in 
his shop than he himself can consume, and the brewer and the baker 
would each of them be willing to purchase part of it. But they have 
nothing to otfer in exchange, except the dift^erent productions of their 
respective trades, and the butcher is already provided with all the bread 
and beer which he has immediate occasion for. No exchange can, in 
this case, be made between them. He cannot be their merchant, nor 
they his customers 5 and they are all of them thus mutually less service- 
able to one another. In order to avoid the inconveniency of such 
situations, every prudent man in every period of society, after the first 
establishment of the division of labour, must naturally have endeavoured 
to manage his atfairs in such a manner, as to have at all times by him, 
besides the peculiar produce of his own industry, a certain quantity of 



23© THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Smith. 

some one commodity or other, such as he imagined few people would 
be likely to refuse in exchange for the produce of their industry. 

Many different commodities, it is probable, were successively both 
thought of and employed for this purpose. In the rude ages of society, 
cattle are said to have been the common instruments of commerce 5 
and, though they must have been a most inconvenient one, yet in old 
times we find things were frequently valued according to the number 
of cattle which had been given in exchange for them. 

The armour of Diomede, says Homer, cost only nine oxen 5 but that 
of Glaucus cost an hundred oxen. Salt is said to be the common 
instrument of commerce and exchanges in Abyssinia ; a species of 
shells in some parts of the coast of India ; dried cod at Newfoundland j 
tobacco in Virginia ; sugar in some of the West India Colonies ; hides 
or dressed leather in some other countries -, and there is at this day a 
village in Scotland where it is not uncommon, I am told, for a work- 
man to carry nails instead of money to the baker's shop or to the ale- 
house. 

In all countries, however, men seem at last to have been determined 
by irresistible reasons to give the preference, for this employment, to 
metals above every other commodity. Metals can not only be kept 
with as little loss as any other commodity, scarce anything being less 
perishable than they are, but they can likewise, without any loss, be 
divided into any number of parts, as by fusion those parts can easily 
be re-united again ; a quality which no other equally durable commodi- 
ties possess, and which more than any other quality renders them fi.t to 
be the instruments of commerce and circulation. The man who 
wanted to buy salt, for example, and had nothing but cattle to give in 
exchange for it, must have been obliged to buy salt to the value of a 
whole ox, or a whole sheep at a time. He could seldom buy less than 
this, because what he was to give for it could seldom be divided with- 
out loss ; and, if he had a mind to buy more, he must, for the same 
reasons, have been obliged to buy double or triple the quantity, the 
value, to wit, of two or three oxen, or of two or three sheep. If, on the 
contrary, instead of sheep or oxen, he had metals to give in exchange 
for it, he could easily proportion the quantity of the metal to the 
precise quantity of the commodity which he had immediate occa- 
sion for. 

Different metals have been made use of by different nations for this 
purpose. Iron was the common instrument of commerce among the 
ancient Spartans ; copper among the ancient Romans ; and gold and 
silver among all rich and commercial nations. — An Inquiry into the 
Nature and Causes of the fVealth of Nations, vol. 1. boctk i. ch. 4. 



Hawthorne.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 231 



93.— PHCEBE PYNCHEON'S CHAMBER. 

[Hawthorne, 1804 — 1864. 

[Nathaniel Hawthorne, or Hathorne, born at Salem, Massachusetts, July 4, 1804, 
was contemporary with Longfellow atBowdoin College, where he graduated in 1825. 
His first literary production was a romance published anonymously at Boston in 
1832. The first series of "Twice Told Tales" contributed to an American 
periodical, appeared in 1837, ^^^^ the second series in 1842. "Mosses from an Old 
Manse" appeared in 1846. In 1847 he was appointed surveyor in the custom-house 
at Salem, and in 1853 American Consul at Liverpool. "The Scarlet Letter" was 
published in i8f;o; "The House of the Seven Gables" in 1851; "The Blithesdale 
Romance" in 1852, and "The Life of President Pierce" in 1852. Hawthorne retired 
from the Consulship in 1857, published " Transformation" in i860, and died in 
America, May 19, 1864. Many of this writer's works have been republished in 
England, though his popularity has suffered from the offensive remarks upon the 
English people in his last work, " Our Old Home," pubhshed in 1862.] 

Phcebe Pyncheon slept, on the night of her arrival, in a chamber 
that looked down on the garden of the old house. It fronted towards 
the east, so that at a very seasonable hour a glow of crimson light 
came flooding through the window, and bathed the dingy ceiling and 
paper-hangings in its own hue. There were curtains to Phosbe's bed 5 
a dark, antique canopy and ponderous festoons, of a stuff which had 
been rich, and even magnificent, in its time ; but which now brooded 
over the girl like a cloud, making a night in that one corner, while 
elsewhere it was beginning to be day. The morning light, however, 
soon stole into the aperture at the foot of the bed, betwixt those faded 
curtains. Finding the new guest there, — with a bloom on her cheeks 
like the morning's own, and a gentle stir of departing slumber in her 
limbs, as when an early breeze moves the foliage, — the dawn kissed her 
brow. It was the caress which a dewy maiden — such as the Dawn is, 
immortally — gives to her sleeping sister, partly from the impulse of 
irresistible fondness, and partly as a pretty hint that it is time now to 
unclose her eyes. 

At the touch of those lips of light, Phcebe quietly awoke, and, foe 
a moment, did not recognise where she was, nor how those heavy cur- 
tains chanced to be festooned around her. Nothing, indeed, was 
absolutely plain to her, except that it was now early morning, and that, 
whatever might happen next, it was proper, first of all, to get up and 
say her prayers. She was the more inclined to devotion, from the grim 
aspect of the chamber and its furniture, especially tbe tall stiff chairs^ 
one of which stood close by her bedside, and looked as if some old- 
fashioned personage had been sitting there all night, and had vanished 
only just in season to escape discovery. 

When Phoebe was quite dressed, she peeped out of the window. 



232 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Hawthorne. 

and saw a rose-bush in the garden. Being a very tall one, and of 
luxurious growth, it had been propped up against the side of the house, 
and was literally covered with a rare and very beautiful species of 
white rose. A large portion of them, as the girl afterwards discovered, 
had blight or mildew at their hearts j but, viewed at a fair distance, 
the whole rose-bush looked as if it had been brought from Eden that 
very summer, together with the mould in which it grew. The truth 
was, nevertheless, that it had been planted by Alice Pyncheon, — she 
was PhoRbe's great-great-grand- aunt, — in soil which, reckoning only 
its cultivation as a garden -plat, was now unctuous with nearly two hun- 
dred years of vegetable decay. Growing as they did, however, out of 
the old earth, the flowers still sent a fresh and sweet incense up to 
their Creator j nor could it have been the less pure and acceptable, 
because Phoebe's young breath mingled with it, as the fragrance floated 
past the window. Hastening down the creaking and carpetless stair- 
case, she found her way into the garden, gathered some of the most 
perfect of the roses, and brought them to her chamber. 

Little Phcebe was one of those persons who possess, as their ex- 
clusive patrimony, the gift of practical arrangement. It is a kind of 
natural magic that enables these favoured ones to bring out the hidden 
capabilities of things around them ; and particularly to give a look of 
comfort and habitableness to any place, which, for however brief a 
period, may happen to be their home, A wild hut of underbush, 
tossed together by wayfarers through the primitive forest, would acquire 
the home aspect by one night's lodging of such a woman, and would 
retain it long after her quiet figure had disappeared into the surround- 
ing shade. No less a portion of such homely witchcraft was requisite, 
to reclaim, as it were, Phoebe's waste, cheerless, and dusky chamber, 
which had been untenanted so long — except by spiders, and mice, and 
rats, and ghosts — that it was all overgrov/n with the desolation which 
watches to obliterate every trace of man's happier hours. What was 
precisely Phoebe's process, we find it impossible to say. She appeared 
to have no preliminary design, but gave a touch here and another 
there j brought some articles of furniture to light, and dragged others 
into the shadow ; looped up or let down a window-curtain ; and, in 
the course of half an hour, had fully succeeded in throwing a kindly 
and hospitable smile over the apartment. No longer ago than the 
night before, it had resembled nothing so much as the old maid's heart j 
for there was neither sunshine nor household fire in one nor the other, 
and, save for ghosts and ghostly reminiscences, not a guest, for 
many years gone-by had entered the heart or the chamber. 

There was still another peculiarity of this inscrutable charm. The 
bed-chamber, no doubt, was a chamber of very great and varied ex- 



Alison.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 233 

perience, as a scene of human life : the joy of bridal nights had 
throbbed itself away here; new immortals had first drawn earthly 
breath here 3 and here old people had died. But — whether it were 
the white roses, or whatever the subtle influence might be — a person 
of delicate instinct would have known at once that it was now a 
maiden's bed-chamber, and had been purified of all former evil and 
sorrow by her sweet breath and happy thoughts. Her dreams of the 
past night, being such cheerful ones, had exorcised the gloom, and now 
haunted the chamber in its stead. — The House of the Seven Gables, 
chap. V, 



94.— THE GIRONDISTS. 

[Sir A. Alison, Baut., 1792 — 1867. 

Archibald Alison, born Dec. 29, 1792, at Henley, in Shropshire, of which place 
his father held the perpetual curacy, and educated at the University of Edinburgh, was 
called as an advocate to the Scottish bar in 1814, and was appointed deputy-advocate 
in 1822, which office he held till 1830. His first literary production, "Principles of 
the Criminal Law of Scotland," pubhshed at Edinburgh in 1832, is a standard work. 
It was followed by "The Practice of the Criminal Law" in 1833. The first volume 
of his great work, "The History of Europe, from the Commencement of the French 
Revolution in 1789 to the Battle of Waterloo" was published in 1839. It was com- 
pleted in ten volumes, the last of which appeared in 1842. A continuation of 
the work, under the title " History of Europe from the Fall of Napoleon in 1815 to 
the Accession of Louis Napoleon in 1852," in nine vols., was brought out between 
1852 and 1859. ^^^ ^- Alison, who has written a "Life of the Duke of Marlborough" 
which appeared in Nov. 1847, ^^^ several other works,- was created a baronet in 1852. 
A writer in the "Foreign Quarterly Review" remarks, " The History of Europe 
during the French Revolution is by far the most remarkable historical work of the 
century."] 

The Girondists were the philosophers of the Revolution. Their ideas 
were often grand and generous, drawn from the heroes of Greece and 
Rome, or the more enlarged philanthropy of modern times ; their 
language ever indulgent and seducing to the people ; their principles 
those which gave its early popularity and its immense celebrity to the 
Revolution. But they judged of mankind by a false standard : their 
ruinous error consisted in supposing that the multitude could be regu* 
lated by the motives which influenced the austere patriots, whom they 
numbered among their own body. An abstract sense of justice, a 
passion for general equality, a repugnance for violent governments, 
distinguished their speeches ; but yet from their innovarions has sprung 
the most oppressive tyranny of modern times, and they were at last found 
joining in many measures of the most flagrant iniquity. The dreadful 
war which ravaged Europe for twenty years was provoked by their 



434 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Alison. 

declamations j the death of the King, the overthrow of the throne, 
the Reign of Terror, flowed from the principles which they pro- 
rnulgated. It is no apology for such conduct to allege that they were 
sincere in their desire for a Republic and the happiness of France : 
the common proverb, that " Hell is paved with good intentions," 
shows how generally perilous conduct, even when flowing from pure 
motives, is found to lead to the most disastrous consequences. They 
were too often, in their political career, reckless and inconsiderate 3 
and thence their eloquence and genius only rendered them the more 
dangerous from the multitudes who were influenced by such alluring 
expressions. Powerful in raising the tempest, they were feeble and 
irresolute in allaying it ; invincible in suffering, heroic in death, they 
were destitute of the energy and practical experience requisite to 
avert disaster. The democrats supported them as long as they urged 
forward the Revolution, and became their bitterest enemies as soon 
as they strove to allay its fury. They were constantly misled by ex- 
ipecting that intelligence was to be found among the lower orders ; 
that reason and justice would prevail with the multitude; and as con- 
stantly disappointed by experiencing the invariable ascendant of 
passion or interest among their popular supporters ; — the usual error 
of elevated and generous minds, and which so frequently unfits them 
for the actual administration of affairs. Their tenets would have led 
them to support the constitutional throne, but they were unable to 
stem the torrent of democratical fury which they themselves had ex- 
cited, and compelled, to avert still greater disasters, to concur in many 
cruel measures, alike contrary to their wislies and their principles. 
The leaders of this party were Vergniaud, Brissot, and Roland; men 
of powerful eloquence, generous philanthropy, and Roman firm- 
ness ; who knew how to die, but not to live ; who perished because 
they wanted the audacity and wickedness requisite for success in a 
Revolution. 

The radical and inherent vice of this party was their irreligion ; and 
the dreadful misfortunes in which they involved their country proved 
how inadequate the most splendid talents are to the management of 
human affairs, or the right discharge of social duty, without that over- 
ruling principle. With all their love of justice, they declared Louis 
guilty; with all their humanity they voted for his death. The 
peasants of La Vendee, who trusted only to the rule of duty pre- 
scribed in their religion, were never betrayed in the same manner into 
acts for which no apology can be found. Whenever statesmen 
abandon the plain rules of duty and justice, and base their conduct on 
the quicksands of supposed expedience, they are involved in a series of 
errors which quickly precipitate them into the most serious crimes. 



Macartney.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 23^ 

But the greatest efforts of human wisdom or virtue are unequal to 
direct or sustain the mind in the trying scenes which a Revolution 
induces : it is the belief of futurity, and a sense of religion alone, 
which can support humanity in such calamities 3 and their want of 
such principles rendered all the genius and philanthropy of the 
Girondists of no practical avail in stemming the disasters of the Revo- 
lution. — History of Europe, from the Commencement of the French 
Revolution in 1789 to the Restoration of the Bourbons in 1815, vol. i. 
ch. vi. 



95.— SMALL FEET OF THE CHINESE WOMEN. 

[Lord Macartney, 1737 — 1806. 
[George Macartney, born at Lissanoure, near Belfast, May 14, 1737, was educated 
at Trinity College, Dublin, and entered the Inner Temple, London, in 1759. In 
1764 he was appointed Envoy Extraordinary to the Empress of Russia, and in 1767 
Ambassador, which post he resigned. In Jan. 1769, he became Chief Secretary for 
Ireland; in 1775 Governor of Granada; and in 1780 Governor of Madras. In 
1792 was appointed Ambassador Extraordinary to the Court of Pekin, and was the 
first Envoy sent to China, from which country he returned to England in 1794. The 
title of baron was conferred upon him in 1776, and he obtained an earldom in 1794. 
He was appointed Governor of the Cape of Good Hope in 1796. Lord Macartney 
died at Chiswick, March 31, 1806. ^neas Anderson published a narrative of this 
Embassy in 1795, but the best work on the subject, " An Authentic Account of an 
Embassy from the King of Great Britain to the Emperor of China," by Sir George 
Leonard Staunton,* who accompanied Lord Macartney as secretary, was published in 
1797. This work was prepared from the papers of Earl Macartney, who is the 
actual author of many of the descriptions. Sir John Barrow'sf "Life of Earl 
Macartney," and a selection from his unpublished papers, appeared in 1807.] 

Of most of the latter (Chinese women), even the middle and inferior 
classes, the feet were unnaturally small, or rather truncated. They 
appeared as if the fore part of the foot had been accidentally cut off, 
leaving the remainder of the usual size, and bandaged like the stump 
of an amputated limb. They undergo, indeed, much torment, and 
cripple themselves in great measure, in imitation of ladies of higher 
rank, among whom^ it is there the custom to stop, by pressure, the 
growth of the ankle as well as foot from the earliest infancy ; and, 
leaving the great toe in its natural position, forcibly to bend the others, 
and retain them under the foot, till at length they adhere to, as if 



* Born in 1737, died Jan. 12, 1801. 
f The author of various works of travel, was born in Lancashire, June 19, 1764, and 
died in London, Nov. 23, 1848. 



236 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Macartney. 

buried in the sole, and can no more be separated. Notwithstanding 
the phabiHty of the human frame in tender years, its tendency to 
expansion at that period must, whenever it is counteracted, occasion 
uneasy sensations to those who are so treated 3 and before the ambition 
of being admired takes possession of those victims to fashion, it 
requires the vigilance of their female parents to deter them from relieving 
themselves from the firm and tight compresses, which bind their feet and 
ankles. Where those compresses are constantly and carefully kept on, 
their feet are symmetrically small. The young creatures are indeed 
obliged, for a considerable time, to be supported when they attempt to 
walk. Even afterwards they totter,- and always walk upon their heels. 
An exact model was afterwards procured of a Chinese lady's foot,* 
from which the opposite engraving has been taken. 

This artificial diminutiveness of the feet, though it does not entirely 
prevent their use, must certainly cramp the general growth, and injure 
the constitution of those who have been subjected to it. Some of the 
very lowest classes of the Chinese, of a race confined chiefly to the 
mountains and remote places,, have not adopted this unnatural custom. 
But the females of this class are held by the rest in the utmost degree 
of contempt, and are employed only in the most menial domestic 
offices. So inveterate is the custom, which gives pre-eminence to 
mutilated before perfect limbs,, that the interpreter averred, and every 
subsequent information confirmed the assertion, that if, of two 
sisters, otherwise every way equal, the one had thus been maimed, 
while nature was suffered to make its usual progress in the other, the 
latter would be considered as in an abject state, unworthy of associating 
with the rest of the family, and doomed to perpetual obscurity, and 
the drudgery of servitude. 

In forming conjectures upon the origin of so singular a fashion 
among the Chinese ladies, it is not very easy to conceive why this mode 
should have been suddenly or forcibly introduced amongst them by the 
other sex. Had men been really bent upon confining constantly to 
their homes the females of their families, they might have effected it 
without cruelly depriving them of the physical power of motion. No 
such custom is known in Turkey or Hindostan, where women are kept 
in greater habits of retirement than in China. Opinion, indeed, more 
than power, governs the general actions of the human race ; and so 
preposterous a practice could be maintained only by the example and 
persuasion of those who, in their own persons, had submitted to it. 
Men who have silently approved, and indirectly encouraged it, as those 



'■• An engraving of a Chinese lady's foot appears in the original work. 



Feltham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 237 

of India are supposed to do that much more barbarous custom of 
widows burning themselves after the death of their husbands. But it 
is not violence, or the apprehension of corporal suffering, but the 
horror and disgrace in consequence of omitting, and the idea of glory 
arising from doing, what is considered to be an act of duty, at the 
expense of life, which leads to such a sacrifice. In that instance ages 
must have past to ripen prejudices productive of a consequence so 
dreadful : but the pride of superiority, and the dread of degradation, 
have been frequently found sufficient to surmount the common feelings 
of nature ; and to many women a voluntary constraint upon the body 
and mind is, in some degree, habitual. 1'hey who recoUect the fashion 
of slender waists in England, and what pains were taken, and sufferings 
endured, to excel in that particular, will be somewhat less surprised 
at extraordinary efforts made in other instances. Delicacy of limbs 
and person has, no doubt, been always coveted by the fair sex, as it 
has been the admiration of the other. Yet it could not be the extra- 
ordinary instance of such in any one lady, though in the most exalted 
rank, according to the popular story throughout China, that could 
induce the rest of her sex to put at once such violence upon them- 
selves, in order to resemble her in that respect. The emulation of 
surpassing in any species of beauty, must have animated vast numbers 
of all ranks, and have continued through successive ages, to carry it at 
last to an excess which defeats, in fact, its intended purpose. What- 
ever a lady may have gained, by the imagined charms of feet de- 
creased below the size of nature, is more than counter-balanced by the 
injury it does to her health and to her figure ; for grace is not in her 
steps, nor animation in her countenance. — Embassy to China, chap. ix. 



96.— OF HUMILITY. 

[Owen Feltham, 1610 — 1678. 

[Owen Feltham was bofn about 1610, and but few particulars of his life have been 
preserved. He is supposed to have acted as secretary to the Earl of Thomond, with 
whom he resided tnany years. His celebrity rests upon his " Resolves/' of which the 
first part appeared in 1627. He published " A Brief Character of the Low Countries'* 
in 1659, and is believed to have died about 1678. A life by James Cumming was 
published in 1806. Hallam (Hist, of Lit. Pt. iii. ch. iv. § 35) remarks: " Feltham 
appears not only a laboured and artificial, but a shallow writer. Among his 
many faults none strikes me more than a want of depth, which his pointed and sen- 
tentious manner renders more ridiculous. There are certainly exceptions to this 
vacuity of original meaning in Feltham ; it would be possible to fill a few pages with 
extracts not undeserving of being read, with thoughts just and judicious, though 
never deriving much lustre from his diction. He is one of our worst writers in point 



238 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Feltham. 

of style; with little vigour, he has less elegance; his English is impure to an exces- 
sive degree, and full of words unauthorized by any usage. Pedantry, and the novel 
phrases which Greek and Latin etymology was supposed to warrant, appear in most 
productions of this period; but Feltham attempted to bend the English idiom to his 
own affectations. The moral reflections of a serious and thoughtful mind are gene- 
rally pleasing, and to this perhaps is partly owing the kind of popularity which the 
' Resolves' of Feltham have obtained ; but they may be had more agreeably and 
profitably in other books."] 

He that would build lastingly, must lay his foundation low. The 
proud man, like the early shoots of a new-felled coppice, thrusts out 
full of sap, green in leaves, and fresh in colours j but bruises and breaks 
with every wind, is nipt with every little cold, and being top-heav}'', is 
wholly unfit for use. Whereas the humble man retains it in the root, 
can abide the winter's killing blast, the ruffling concussions of the wind, 
and can endure far more than that which appears so flourishing. Like 
the pyramid, he has a large foundation, whereby his height may be 
more emineni: ; and the higher he is, the less does he draw at the top 3 
as if the learer heaven the smaller he must appear. And, indeed, the 
niglier man approaches to celestials, and the more he considers God, 
the more he sees to make himself vile in his own esteem. He who 
values himself least, shall by others be prized most. Nature swells 
when she meets a check 3 but submission in us to others, begets sub- 
mission in others to us. Force can do no more than compel us ; while 
gentleness and unassumingness calm and captivate even the rude and 
boisterous. The proud man is certainly a fool -, I am sure, let his parts 
be what they will, in being proud he is so. One thing may assuredly 
persuade us of the excellence of humility ; it is ever found to dwell 
most with men of the noblest natures. Give me the man that is 
humble out of judgement, and I shall find him full of parts. Charles 
the Fifth, appears as great in holding the candle to his departing visi- 
tors, as when he was surrounded by his victorious officers. Moses, who 
was the first and greatest divine, statesman, historian, philosopher, and 
poet 3 who, as a valiant general, led Israel out of Egypt 3 who v/as re- 
nowned for his miracles, and could roll up the waves to pass his men, 
and tumble them down again upon his enemies 3 who was a type of 
Christ, and styled a friend of God, and, as Ecclesiasticus tells us, 
beloved both of God and 7nen ; was nevertheless meek above all that 
were upon the face of the earth : — and lest our proud dust should 
think it a disparagement to be humble, we are assured by our Saviour 
himself, that to be so will be rest to our souls. We are sent to the 
pismire for industry, to the lion for valour, to the dove for innocence, 
to the serpent for wisdom 3 but for humility unto God himself, as an 
attribute more peculiar to his excellence. No man ever lost the esteem 
of a wise man by stooping to an honest lowness when there was occa- 



Gray.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 239 

sion for it. I have known a great duke to fetch in wood to his inferior's 
fire J and a general of nations descend to a footman's office in hfting 
up the boot of a coach ; — yet, neither thought it a degradation to their 
dignity. The text gives it to the pubhcan's humihty, rather than to 
the Pharisee's boasting. He may well be suspected to be defective 
within, that would draw respect to himself by unduly assuming it. 
What is that man the worse, who lets his inferior go before him ? The 
folly is in him who arrogates respect when it is not his due ; but the 
prudence rests with him, who in the sereneness of his own worth does 
not seek for it. I am not troubled, if my dog outruns me. The sun chides 
not the morning star, though it presumes to usher in day before him. 
While the proud man bustles in the storm, and begets himself enemies, 
the humble peaceably passes in the shade unenvied. The full sail over- 
sets the vessel, which drawn in, may make the voyage prosperous. 
Humility prevents disturbance : it rocks debate asleep, and keeps men 
in continued peace. When the two goats met on a narrow bridge over 
a deep stream, was not that the wiser, which lay down for the other to 
pass over him, than that one which would rather hazard both their 
lives by contending ? The former preserved himself from danger, and 
made the latter indebted to him for his preservation. I will never think 
myself disparaged either by preserving peace or doing good. He is 
charitable, who for Christian ends, can be content to part with his due : 
and he who would take my due from me, wrongs not me so much as 
himself. I have ever thought it indiscretion to vie it in continued 
strife. Prevailing is but victory in part. The pride of my opponent 
may still remain unconquered. If I be subdued, beside my shame, I 
purchase his contempt to boot, when yielding out of prudence, I 
triumph over all, and bring him in to be mine. I had rather be 
accounted too humble, than be esteemed a little proud. The former 
tends to virtue and wisdom : the latter to dishonour and vice. — 
Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Political. Part ii. Of Humility. 



97.— ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 

[Thomas Gray, 1716 — 1771. 

[Thomas Gray, the son of a money scrivener, born in Cornhill, Dec. 26, 17 16, was 
educated at Eton and Cambridge. He accompanied Horace Walpole on a tour 
through France and Italy, 1739 — 1 741, and returned to Cambridge to study Civil 
Law. His "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," written in 1742, appeared 
in 1747, and the " Elegy written in a Country Churchyard," commenced in 1742, 
and completed in 1749, was first published in Feb. 1751. His Pindaric Odes were 
published at Strawberry Hill in 1757. He declined the Laureateship offered to 



14© THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Gray. 

him in 1757, and was appointed Professor of Modern History at Cambridge in 
1768. Gray died at Cambridge, July 30, 1771. A Memoir, by the Rev. N» 
Mason, appeared in 1775, and another, by the Rev. J. Mitford, in 1814.J 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. 

That crown the watery glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade j 
And ye, that from the stately brow. 
Of Windsor's heights t:i' expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders th^hoar^^liames along 

His silver-winding way : 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! -^ 

Wiiere once ray careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bhss bestow. 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing. 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, • 

And, redolent of joy and youth, * 

To breathe a secood spring. 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green. 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 1 

Who foremost now delight to cleave. 
With pliant arm, thy glassy w^ve ? 

The captive linnet which enthral ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some on earnest business bent 

Their murmuring labours ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty : 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign. 



Gray.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 241 

And unkno\xTi regions dare descn^- : 
Still as they run tliey look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind. 

And snatch a fearful J07. 

Gay hope is theirs hj fancy fed. 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed. 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue. 
Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And Hvely cheer, of \4gour bornj 
The thoughtless day, tli^ easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly th' approach of morn. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom 

The httle victims play ; 
No sense have tliey of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see, how all around 'em wait 
The ministers of human fate 

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand. 
To seize their prey, the murth'rous band ! 

Ah, tell them, they are men I ^ 

These shall the fiiry Passions tear. 

The \niltures of the mind. 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame tliat sculks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth. 
Or Jealousy, with ranlding tooth. 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And Emy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high. 
To bitter Scorn a sacriiice. 

And grinning Infamy. 



442 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hare. 

The sting of Falsehood those shall try. 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow 3 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled. 
And moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A griesly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
That every labouring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand. 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men. 

Condemned alike to groan 3 
The tender for another's pain, 

Th' unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate. 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their Paradise, 
No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton. 



98.— THE BLESSEDNESS OF GOD'S HOUSE. 

[Archdeacon Hare, 1795 — 1855. 

[Julius Charles Hare, born Sept. 13, 1795, was educated at the Charter House and 
at Cambridge, and became a fellow of Trinity College in 1818. He obtained the 
family living of Hurstmonceaux, in Sussex. In 1840 he was appointed archdeacon 
of Lewes; in 1851, a prebendary of Chichester; and in 1853 one of the Queen's 
chaplains. Archdeacon Hare died Jan. 23, 1855. He is one of the authors of 
"Guesses at Truth," published in 1827. "The Victory of Faith," a course of 
sermons, appeared in 1840; "The Mission of the Comforter" in 1846, and a 
"Life of John Sterling" in 1848.] 

One hour in the house of God is better than a thousand, than a 
tliousand spent in any of the world's houses, even tliough it be the 



Hare.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 243 

world's richest, most luxurious palace. To him who knows the real 
value of tlie world's pleasures, who has experienced them, and knows 
how soon they pall on the heart, this will not seem much to say. He 
who had taken his fill of all the world's choicest pleasures, declared of 
them that they are vanity and weariness and vexation 3 and every one 
is sure to make the same discovery, if he has but to spend a long time 
in them. For one day tliey may seem to be pleasant ; if we had to 
endure them for a tliousand days in succession, there is no pain or toil 
that we should not hail as a relief from their sickening palsy. You 
too, my brethren, who do not dwell in palaces, or glut yourselves with 
the choicer pleasures of tlie world, must have found out how weari- 
some your coarser pleasures soon become, and what a refreshment it is 
to turn from them after a little while, even to the hardest labour. 
Even a single day spent in pleasure, in revelling, in self-indulgence, is 
wearisome. What then would a thousand days be ! — a heavy burthen, 
too heavy for man to bear. They would turn a man, body and soul, 
into a bloated mass of festering diseases. Think of this, brethren • 
and then tliink further, what would a thousand years of uninterrupted 
revelling and self-indulgence be. There would be no need of any 
other hell ; so terrible would this be, that the flames of hell itself 
would be almost welcome, if they would consume our gnawing 
pleasures. 

Yes, my brethren, assuredly, it is only at the right hand of the Lord, 
it is only in the house of God, and the courts around it, that there are 
pleasures which endure for evermore. The pleasures of the world 
soon turn to pains. The mask drops oiF, and the serpent's head and 
fangs shew themselves. But tlie pleasures which are to be found in 
the house of God endure for evermore, and become continually sweeter 
and more delightful. Of the world's pleasures it may truly be said, 
tliat one day spent in tliem is better than a thousand spent in them. 
But one day spent in the house of God is not better than a thousand 
spent in the house of God. To the children of this world, indeed, it 
seems that all pleasures must partake in the fleeting, changeful nature 
of tlieir own : and often, when they have been told of the joys of 
heaven, they have exclaimed that after awhile those pleasures must 
become insuflerably dull and tiresome. But this arises solely from the 
dulness of their spiritual perceptions, from their having no relish for 
spiritual pleasures. Alas ! too, all, even the ripest Christians, have 
more or less of this spiritual dulness. As our whole nature became 
subject to death, when it turned away from God, so did ail our feelings 
and thoughts and purposes become fleeting, transient, perishable. God 
is eternal : truth is eternal: whatever is of God. His thoughts, his 
purposes are eternal : but everything that is of man passes away, and 

R 2 



244 THE EPERY- DAY BOOK [Robertson. 

is almost like a foot-print in the sand of the desert, over which the 
wind blows, and it is gone. Hence we are unable to conceive what 
would be the blessedness of a thousand days spent in the house of 
God. Even one day, one whole day, is too much for our spiritual 
weakness. After a couple of hours we grow faint, weary, distracted, — 
often before. Hence God has mercifully vouchsafed in training us for 
heaven, to call us to spend a few hours every week in his presence. He 
trains us, as children are trained to walk, little by little, first a step or 
two, then a few more, then more. Yet we are far slower to learn 
than children are r and even in the course of a long life, few make 
much progress in learning the blessing of dwelling in God's \iouse. 

Hence the natural man will readily agree that one di. \r in God's 
courts is better than a thousand in them. For one day a man may 
fancy he could support ;. but how could he bear up through a thousand ? 
If this, however, be our state of mind, how shall we be fitted for 
dwelling in God's presence for ever ? The painfulness of it to the 
natural man, the painfulness of dwelling in His light, and His eye 
piercing ever through all the windings of our hearts and minds, must 
seem utterly insupportable. Great need, therefore, have we to learn 
from the Psalmist that one day in his courts is a blessing. And how 
can we learn it ? Only by learning to love God. This is the only 
way. In proportion as we love God, we shall love to be in His 
courts. Even human love bears witness of this ; even human love 
declares and feels that one day, with those whom we love dearly, is 
better than a thousand away from them. So would it also be, — if we 
really loved God, — if we had ever really tasted the joy of living in His 
presence, the joy, the blessedness of having our will at one with His 
will, of looking up to Him with trustful, childly love, as to our Father 
to whom we have been brought by His only begotten Son. — Sermons 
Preached on Particular Occasions. No. XV. Psalm Ixxxiv. lo. 



99.— THE PROGRESS OF CIVILISATION. 

[Rev. Dr. Robertson, 1721 — 1793. 
[William Robertson, born at Borthwick, near Edinburgh, Sept. 19, 1721, was 
educated at the university of Edinburgh, and obtained the living of Gladsmuir, in 
1743. His "History of Scotland" appeared in Feb. 1759. He was made one of the 
deans of the chapel royal in 1761, principal of the University of Edinburgh in 1762, 
and historiographer for Scotland in 1764. He published his "History of Charles V." 
in 1769, and his "History of America" in 1777. His last work, "An Historical 
Disquisition Concerning the Knowledge which the Ancients had of India," appeared 
in 1791, towards the end of which year his health began to fail, and he died at Edin- 
burgli, June 11, 1793. Dugald Stewart published an account of Robertson's Life 
and Writings in 1801, and his Works, with Life, in 8 vols., appeared in 1825.] 



Robertson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 245 

The progress of science, and the cultivation of literature, had consider- 
able effect in changing the manners of the European nations, and intro- 
ducing tliat civility and refinement by which they are now distinguished. 
At tlie time when their empire was overturned, the Romans, though 
they had lost that correct taste wliich has rendered the productions of 
their ancestors standards of excellence, and models of imitation for suc- 
ceeding ages, still preserved their love of letters, and cultivated the arts 
with great ardour. But rude barbarians were so far from being struck 
with any admiration of these unknown accomplishments, that they 
despised them. They were not arrived at that state of society, when 
those faculties of the human mind, which have beauty and elegance for 
tlieir objects, begin to unfold themselves. They were strangers to 
most of those wants and desires which are the parents of ingenious in- 
vention ; and as tliey did not comprehend either the merit or utility of 
the Roman arts, tliey destroyed the monuments of them witli an 
industry not inferior to tliat with which their posterity have since studied 
to preserve or to recover them. The convulsions occasioned by the 
settlement of so many unpolished tribes in the empire 3 the frequent as 
well as violent revolutions in every kingdom which they established, 
together with the interior defects in the form of government which 
they introduced, banished security and leisure 3 prevented the growth 
of taste, or the culture of science ; and kept Europe, during several 
centuries, in that state of ignorance which has been already described. 
But the events and institutions which I have enumerated, produced 
great alterations in society. As soon as their operation in restoring 
liberty and independence to one part of the community began to be 
felt ; as soon as they began to communicate to all the members of 
society some taste of the advantages arising from commerce, from public 
order, and from personal security, the human mind became conscious 
of powers which it did not formerly perceive, and fond of occupations 
or pursuits of which it was formerly incapable. Towards the begin- 
ning of the twelfth century, we discern the first symptoms of its 
awakening from that lethargy in which it had been long sunk, and 
observe it turning with curiosity and attention towards new objects. 
The first literary efforts, however, of tlie European nations in the Middle 
Ages, were extremely ill-directed. Among nations, as well as indi- 
viduals, the powers of imagination attain some degree of vigour before 
the intellectual faculties are much exercised in speculative or abstract 
disquisition. Men are poets before they are philosophers. They feel 
with sensibility, and describe with force, when they have made but 
httle progress in investigation or reasoning. The age of Homer and 
of Hesiod long preceded that of Thales or of Socrates. But, unhappily 
for hterature, our ancestors, deviating from tliis course which nature 



►46 



THE EP-ERY-DAY BOOK 



[Tieck. 



points out, plunged at once into tlie depth of abstruse and metaphysical 
inquiry. They had been converted to the Christian faith, soon after 
they settled in their new conquests. But tliey did not receive it pure. 
The presumption of men had added to tlie simple and instructive 
doctrines of Christianity tlie theories of a vain philosophy, that attempted 
to penetrate into mysteries and to decide questions A\'hich the limited 
faculties of the human mind are unable to comprehend or to resolve. 
These over-curious speculations M'ere incorporated \^'ith the system of 
religion, and came to be considered as the most essential part of it. 
As soon, then, as curiosit}^ prompted men to inquire and to reason, 
tliese were the subjects \^"hich lirst presented themselves, and engaged 
their attention. The scholastic theology, with its inlinite train of bold 
disquisitions, and subtle distinctions concerning points ^^'hich are not tlie 
object of human reason, was the tirst production of the spirit of inquiry 
after it began to resume some degree of activit}' and vigour in Europe. 
It was not, ho\\-ever, tliis circumstance alone, that gave such a wrong 
turn to tlie minds of men, ^^-llen they began again to exercise talents 
which tliey had so long neglected. INIost of the persons who attempted 
to revive literature in tlie t^^'elftll and thirteenth centuries, had received 
instruction, or derived their principles of science from the Greeks in the 
Eastern Empire, or troni the Arabians in Spain and Africa. Both these 
people, acute and inquisitive to excess, had corrupted those sciences 
which they cultivated. The former rendered theology a system of 
speculative retinement, or of endless controversy. The latter commu- 
nicated to philosophy a spirit of metaphysical and frivolous subtlety. 
Misled by these guides, the persons who tirst applied to science were 
involved in a maze of intricate inquiries. Instead of allowing their 
fancy to take its natural range, and to produce such ^^•orks of invention 
as might have improved their taste, and retined their sentiments ; 
instead of cultivating those arts which embellish Jiuman life, and render 
it comfortable ; tliey were fettered by authority, they were led astray 
by example, and wasted tlie whole force of their genius in speculations 
as unavailable as they were ditiicult. — The History of Charles the Fifth, 
hitroductory Chapter : On the State of Society in Europe. 



loo.— THE GOLDEN GOBLET. 

[Tieck, i773— 1853. 

[LuDwiG Tieck, born at Berlin, May 31, 1773, and educated at the universities of 
Halle, Gottingcn, and Erlangen, published " Almansur," a prose idyll, in 1790, and 
" Alia Media," a prose plav, in 1791. From this time he produced a succession of 
tales, no\els, and dramas. From an early age he applied himself to the study of the 



Tieck.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 24'r 

English language and literature, and in 181 7 visited this country for the purpose of 
making himself acquainted with the literature of the Elizabethan period. Having 
pursued his researches at the British Museum, and at private collections, he returned 
to Germany, and settled at Dresden, where he produced a great variety of works. 
The first volume of his translation of Shakspeare appeared in 1825, and the last in 
1829. He took up his residence at Berlin in 1840, at the invitation of Frederick 
William IV. A collected edition of his works, in 20 vols., appeared at Berlin between 
the years 1828 — 1846. Tieck died at Berlin, April 28, 1853. His efforts to make 
Shakspeare appreciated in Germany entitle him to the gratitude of Englishmen.] 

They sat down at the table, which was covered with red cloth; and 
the old man placed something on it which was carefully wrapped up. 

" From pity to your youth," he began, " I lately promised to fore- 
tell you whether or not you could become happy 3 and this promise I 
am willing to fulfil at the present hour, though you recently wished to 
treat the matter as a jest. You need not alarm, yourself, for what I 
design can happen without danger. I shall make no dread incanta- 
tions, nor shall any horrible apparition terrify you. The thing which 
I shall endeavour may fail in two ways 3 either if yoQ do not love so 
truly as you have wished to make me believe, for then my labour is in 
vain, and nothing will show itself 3 or if you should disturb the oracle, 
and destroy it by a useless question, or by a hasty movement leaving 
your seat, the figure would break in pieces. So you must keep your- 
self quite still." 

Ferdinand gave his word 3 and the old man unfolded from the 
cloths that which he had brought with him. It was a golden goblet, 
of very costly and beautiful workmanship 3 around its broad foot ran 
a wreath of flowers, twined with myrtles and various other leaves and 
fruit, highly chased with dim and brilliant gold. A similar ring, only 
richer, adorned with figures of children, and wild httle animals playing 
with them, or flying before them, wound itself around the centre of 
the cup. The chalice was beautifully turned 3 above, it was bent back 
toward the lips 3 and within, the gold sparkled with a ruddy glow. 
The old man placed the goblet between himself and the youth, and 
beckoned him nearer. 

'^ Do you feel something," said he, ^'^ when your eye loses itself in 
this splendour ?" 

'^^'Yes," said Ferdinand 3 *^ this brightness reflects into my very 
inmost being, — I might say, I feel it as a kiss in my longing bosom." 

" It is right," said the old man. " Now let your eyes no more stray 
around, but keep them fixed on the glance of this gold, and think as 
earnestly as you can on your beloved." 

Both sat still awhile, and, absorbed in contemplation, beheld the 
gleaming cup. But soon the old man, with mute gestures, first 
slowly, and then more quickly, and at last with rapid movement, pro- 



248 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Tieck. 



ceeded with extended finger to draw regular circles around the glow of 
the goblet. Then he paused, and took the circles from the opposite 
direction. When he had thus continued for some time, Ferdinand 
thought he heard music, but it sounded as from without in a distant 
street. Soon, however, the tones came higher 3 they struck on his ear 
louder and louder, and vibrated more distinctly through the air ; so 
that, at last, he felt no doubt but that they issued from the interior of 
the goblet. The music became still stronger, and of such penetrating 
power, that the heart of the young man trembled, and tears rose into 
his eyes. Busily moved the old man's hand in various directions 
across the mouth of the cup ; and it appeared as if sparks from his 
fingers were convulsively striking and sounding on the gold. Soon the 
shining points increased, and followed, as on a thread, the motion of 
his finger j they glittered of various colours, and crowded still more 
closely on one another, till they rushed altogether in continuous lines. 
Now it seemed as if the old man in the red twilight was laying a won- 
drous net over the brightening gold, for at will he drew the beams 
hither and thither, and wove up with them the opening goblet: they 
obeyed him, and remained lying like a covering, waving to and fro, and 
playing into one another. When they thus were fastened, he again 
described the circles around the rim ; the music subsided, and became 
softer and softer, till it could no longer be perceived, and the bright 
net- work quivered, as if in agony. It burst in increasing agitation, 
and the beams rained down drops into the chahcej but out of the 
fallen drops arose a reddish cloud, which formed itself in manifold 
circles, and floated like foam over the mouth of the cup. A bright 
point darted up with the greatest rapidity through the clouded circles. 
There stood the image ; and suddenly, as it were, an eye looked out 
from the mist j above, golden locks flowed in ringlets ; presently a 
soft blush went up and down the quivering shade j and P>rdinand 
recognised the smiling countenance of his beloved — the blue eyes, the 
delicate cheeks, the lovely red mouth. The head waved to and fro, 
raised itself more distinctly and visibly on the slender white neck, and 
bowed towards the enraptured youth. The old man kept on describing 
his circles around the goblet, and thereout issued the glancing shoul- 
ders ', and at last the whole of the lovely image pressed from out the 
golden bed, and gracefully waved to and fro. 

Ferdinand thought he felt the breath as the beloved form inclined 
towards him, and almost touched him with burning hps. In his 
ravishment, he could no longer command himself, but impressed a kiss 
on the mouth, and endeavoured to grasp the beautiful arm, and quite 
to raise the lovely form out of its golden prison. Then a violent 
trembling suddenly struck through the image, as in a thousand frag- 



Burnet.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 249 

ments the head and body broke together 3 and a rose lay at the foot of 
the goblet, in whose blush the sweet smile still appeared. Ferdinand 
passionately seized it, and pressed it to his mouth. At this ardent 
longing, it withered and dissolved away in the air. 

"Thou hast hardly kept thy word," said the old man, angrily: 
"thou canst only impute the fault to thyself." 

He again wrapped up his goblet, drew aside the curtains, and 
opened a window. The clear daylight broke in, and Ferdinand, in a 
melancholy mood, and with many apologies, took his leave of the 
murmuring old man. — Tales from the Phantasus, doc. : The Mysterious 
Cup, 



loi.— INTERCOURSE WITH PRINCES. 

[Bp. Burnet, 1643 — 1715. 

[Gilbert Burnet, born at Edinburgh, Sept. 18, 1643, and educated at the College of 
Aberdeen, after studying law for a short time was licensed to preach in 1661. In 
1663 he visited Oxford, Cambridge, and London, and went on a tour on the Con- 
tinent. In 1669 he was made Professor of Divinity at Glasgow, and in 1674 resigned 
the chair and removed to London. Burnet, who held various appointments, retired 
to the Continent on the accession of James II., and returned as chaplain with 
William III., who made him Bishop of Salisbury in 1689. This see he held till his 
death, which occurred in London, March 17, 1715. His first publication, "A 
Modest and Free Conference between a Conformist and a Non-conformist," appeared 
in 1669. His "Memoirs of the Dukes of Hamilton," appeared in 1677, the first 
volume of "The History of the Reformation in England," in 1679, the second 
volume in 1681, the Introduction to the third volume in 1712, and the third volume 
itself in 1715. His "Exposition of the Thirty-Nine Articles," was published in 
1699, and the work by which he is best known, "Bishop Burnet's History of his 
Own Time, from the Restoration of King Charles II. to the Conclusion of the Treaty 
of Utrecht," was not published till after his death, 1724 — 34. A life by his son, 
Thomas Burnet, the judge, was published with the " History of his Own Time," 
and another by Le Clerc appeared in 1715. Dryden introduced Burnet as King 
Buzzard in the " Hind and Panther." Dr. Johnson remarked, " Burnet's History 
of his Own Time is very entertaining. The style, indeed, is mere chit-chat."] 

I HAVE had the honour to be admitted to much free conversation 
with five of our sovereigns 5 king Charles the second, king James the 
second, king William the third, queen Mary, and queen Anne. King 
Charles's behaviour was a thing never enough to be commended; he 
was a perfectly well-bred man, easy of access, free in his discourse, 
and sweet in his whole deportment : this was managed with great 
art, and it covered bad designs 3 it was of such use to him, 
that it may teach all succeeding princes, of what advantage an 
easiness of access and an obliging behaviour may be : this preserved 
him 3 it often disarmed those resentments which his ill conduct in 



THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Burnet. 



everything, both public and private, possessed all thinking people with 
very early, and all sorts of people at last : and yet none could go to him, 
but they were in a great measure softened before they left him : it 
looked like a charm, that could hardly be resisted : yet there was no 
good nature under that, nor was there any truth in him. King James 
had great application to business, though without a right understand- 
ing ; that application gave him a reputation, till he took care to throw 
it off: if he had not come after king Charles, he would have passed 
for a prince of a sweet temper, and easy of access. King William was 
the reverse of all this ; he was scarce accessible, and was always cold 
and silent ; he minded affairs abroad so much, and was so set on the 
war, that he scarce thought of his government at home : this raised a 
general disgust, which was improved by men of ill designs, so that it 
perplexed all his affairs, and he could scarce support himself at home, 
whilst he was the admiration of all abroad. Queen Mary was affable, 
cheerful, and lively, spoke much, and yet under great reserv^es, minded 
business, and came to understand it well) she kept close to rules, 
chiefly to those set her by the king, and she charmed all that 
came near her. Queen Anne is easy of access, and hears every- 
thing very gently ; but opens herself to so few, and is so cold and 
general in her answers, that people soon find that the chief application 
is to be made to her ministers and favourites, who in their turns have 
an entire credit and full power with her : she has laid down the splen- 
dour of a court too much, and eats privately 3 so that except on 
Sundays, and a few hours twice or thrice a week at night in the 
drawing-room, she appears so little, that her court is as ih were aban- 
doned. Out of all these princes' conduct, and from their successes in 
their affairs, it is evident what ought to be the measures of a wise and 
good prince, who would govern the nation happily and gloriously. 

The first, the most essential, and most indispensable rule for a king, 
is, to study the interest of the nation, to be ever in it, and to be always 
pursuing it ; this will lay in for him such a degree of confidence, that 
he will be ever safe with his people, when they feel they are safe with 
him. No part of our story shows this more visibly than queen Eliza- 
beth's reign, in which the true interest of the nation was constantly 
pursued • and this was so well understood by all, that everything else 
was forgiven her and her ministers both. Sir Simonds D'Ewes' 
Journal shows a treatment of parliaments, that could not have been 
borne at any other time, or under any other administration. This was 
the constant support of king William's reign, and continues to support 
the present reign, as it will support all who adhere steadily to it. 

A prince, that would command the affections and purses of this nation, 
must not study to stretch his prerogative, or be uneasy under the re- 



Speke.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 2^1 

straints of law 3 as soon as this humour shows itself, he must expect that 
a jealousy of him, and an uneasy opposition to him, will follow 
through the whole course of his reign 3 whereas if he governs well, 
parliaments will trust him, as much as a wise prince would desire to 
be trusted 3 and will supply him in every war that is necessary, either 
for their own preservation, or the preservation of those allies, with 
whom mutual interests and leagues unite him : but though, soon after 
the Restoration, a slavish parliament supported king Charles in the 
Dutch war, yet the nation must be strangely changed, before anything 
of that sort can happen again. — History of his own Time. The Con- 
clusion. S. 661. 



102.— THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. 

[Capt. Speke, 1827 — 1864. 

[John Hanning Speke, born in May, 1827, entered the Indian army in 1847, ^"^ 
took part in the Punjaub campaign. He went on several exploring expeditions in 
the Himalayas and Thibet, and in 1858 penetrated to Lake Nyanza, in Central 
Africa. Accompanied by Capt. Grant,he endeavoured to clear up the mystery, which 
from the days of Herodotus has puzzled geographers, respecting the real source of the 
Nile, and in this he to a great extent succeeded. His " Discovery of the Source 
of the Nile," appeared in 1863. "What led to the Discovery of the Source of the 
Nile?" published in 1864, contains an account of this enterprising traveller's African 
explorations. Capt. Speke was killed by the accidental discharge of his gun whilst 
shooting in the neighbourhood of Bath, Sept. 15, 1864.] 

The expedition had now performed its functions. I saw that old 
father Nile without any doubt rises in the Victoria N'yanza, and, as I 
had foretold, that lake is the great source of the holy river which 
cradled the first expounder of our religious belief. I mourned, how- 
ever, when I thought how much I had lost by the delays in the 
journey having deprived me of the pleasure of going to look at the 
north-east corner of the N'yanza to see what connection there was, by 
the strait so often spoken of, with it and the other lake where the 
Waganda went to get their salt, and from which another river flowed 
to the north, making "Usoga an island." But I felt I ought to be 
content with what I had been spared to accomplish 3 for I had seen 
full half of the lake, and had information given me of the other half, 
by means of which I knew all about the lake, as far, at least, as the 
chief objects of geographical importance were concerned. 

Let us now sum up the whole and see what it is worth. Compara- 
tive information assured me that there was as much water on the 
eastern side of the lake as there is on the western — if anything, 
rather more. The most remote waters, or top head of the Nile, is the 



252 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Burton. 

southern end of the lake, situated close on the third degree of south 
latitude, which gives to the Nile the surprising length, in direct mea- 
surement, rolling over thirty- four degrees of latitude, of above 2300 
miles, or more than one-eleventh of the circumference of our globe. 
Now from this southern point, round by the west, to where the great 
Nile stream issues, there is only one feeder of any importance, and 
that is the Kitangulc river 3 whilst from the southernmost point, round 
by the east, to the strait, there are no rivers at all of any importance j 
for the travelled Arabs one and all aver, that from the west of the 
snow-clad Kilimandjaro to the lake where it is cut by the second 
degree, and also the first degree of south latitude, there are salt lakes 
and salt plains, and the country is hilly, not unlike Unyamiiezi j but 
they said tliere were no great rivers, and the country was so scantily 
watered, having only occasional runnels and rivulets, that they always 
had to make long marches in order to find water when they went on 
their trading journeys : and further, those Arabs who crossed the strait 
when they reached Usoga, as mentioned before, during the late inter- 
regnum, crassed no river either. 

There remains to be disposed of the " Salt Lake," which I believe 
is not a salt, but a fresh- water lake 3 and my reasons are, as before 
stated, that the natives call all lakes salt, if they find salt beds or salt 
islands in such places. Dr. Krapf, when he obtained a sight of the 
Kenia mountain, heard from the natives there that there was a salt 
lake to its northward, and he also heard that a river ran from Kenia 
towards the Nile. If his information was true on this latter point, 
then, without doubt, there must exist some connection between his 
river and the salt lake 1 have heard of, and this in all probability would 
also establish a connection between my salt lake and his salt lake 
which he heard was called Baringo. In no view that can be taken of 
it, however, does this unsettled matter touch the established fact that 
the head of the Nile is in 3° south latitude, where, in the year 1858, 
I discovered the head of the Victoria N'y^nza to be. — Discovery of the 
Source of the Nile, chap. xv. 



103.— EFFECTS OF MUSIC. 

[Rev. R. Burton, 1576-^1640. 

[Robert Burton, born at Linrilcy in Leicestershire, Feb. 8, 1576, was educated at 
CJxford, where he distinguished hiimself by his proficiency in logic and philosophy. 
In 1616 he hecanie vicar of St. 'I'honuis, and in 1628 rector of Segrave in Leicester- 
shire. He died Jan. 25, 1640. The "Anatonny of Melancholy," by Democritus Junior, 
ai^pcareU in 1621. Dr. Johnson said it "was the only book that ever took him out 



Burton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. .a^ 

of bed two hours earlier than he wished to rise." Lord Byron spoke of it as " the 
most amazing and instructive medley of quotations and classical anecdotes I ever 
perused," An account of the author is prefixed to the iith edition of the " Anatomy 
of Melancholy" published in 1806.] 

Many and sundry are the means which philosophers and physicians 
have prescribed to exhilarate a sorrowdFul heart, to divert those fixed and 
intent cares and meditations^ which in this malady so much olJend ; 
but, in my judgment, none so present, none so powerfull, none so 
apposite, as a cup of strong drink, mirth, musick, and merry company. 
Ecclus. 40, 20 : IVine and musick rejoyce the heart. Rhasis (cont. 9 
Tract 15), Altomarus (cap, 7), CElianus Montaltus (c. 26), Ficinus, 
Bened. Victor. Faventinus, are almost immoderate in the commenda- 
tion of it J a most forcible medicine Jacchinus calls it ; Jason Pratensis, 
a most admirable thing, and worthy oj^ consideration, that can so mollijie 
the minde, and stay those tempestuous affections of it. Musica est mentis 
medicina 7ncestce, a roaring-meg against melancholy, to rear and re\ive 
the languisliing soul ; affecting not only the ears, lut the very arteries, 
the vital and animal spirits, it erects the minde, and makes it nimlle. 
Lemnius, instit. cap. 44. This it will effect in the most dull, severe, 
and sorrowfull souls 3 expell griefe with mirth, and if there he any cloudes, 
dust, or dregs of cares yet lurking in our thoughts, most powerfully it 
wipes them all away. (Salisbur. polit. lil\ i cap. 6) ; and that which is 
more, it will perform all this in an instant — chear up the countenance, 
expell austerity , bring in hilarity, (Girald. Camb. cap. 12 Topogr. Hiber.) 
informe our manners, mitigate anger. Athenaeus {Deipnosophist. lib. 14 
cap. 10) calleth it an uifinite treasure to such as are endowed with it. 
Dulcisonum reficit tristia corda melos. — (Eobanus Hessus.) 
Many other properties Cassiodorus {epist. 4) reckons up of this our 
divine musick, not only to expell the greatest griefs, but it doth extenuate 
fears and furies, appeaseth cruelty, abateth heaviness ; and, to such as are 
watchfull, it causeth quiet rest ; it takes away spleen and hatred, bee it 
instrumentall, vocall, with strings, winde, quce a spiritu, sine manuum 
dexteritate, gubernetur, &:c. it cures all irksomeness and heaviness of the 
soul. Labouring men, that sing to their work, can tell as much • and 
so can souldiers when they go to fight, whom terror of death cannot so 
much aftright, as the sound of trumpet, dram, fife, and such like musick 
animates J metus enim mortis, as Censorinus enformeth us, rnusicd 
depallitur. It makes a childe quiet, the nurse's song ; and many times 
the sound of a trumpet on a sudden, bells ringing, a carreman's whistle, 
a boy singing some ballad tune early in the street, alters, revives, 
recreates a restless patient that cannot sleep in the night, &c. In a 
word it is so powerful a thing that it ravisheth the soul, regina sensuum, 
the queen of the senses, by sweet pleasure (which is an happy cure) j 



254 



THE E VERY-DAY BOOK 



[Quarles. 



and corporall tunes pacific our incorporeall soul : sine ore loquens, 
dominatum in animam exercet, and carries it beyond itself, helps, 
elevates, extends it. Scaliger (exercit. 302) gives a reason of these 
effects, because the spirits about the heart take in that trembling and 
dancing air into the body, are moved together and stirred up with it, or 
else the minde, as some suppose, harmonically composed, is roused up 
at the tunes of musick. And 'tis not only men that are so affected, but 
almost all other creatures. You know the tale of Hercules Gallus, 
Orpheus, and Amphion, (felices animas Ovid calls them) that could 
saxa movere sono testudinis &c. make stocks and stones, as well as beasts, 
and other animals, dance after their pipes : the dog and hare, wolf and 
lamb, 

Vicinumque lupo praebuit agna latus, 

Clamosus graculus, stridula comix, et Jovis aquila, 

as Philostratus describes it in his images, stood all gaping upon 
Orpheus 3 and trees, pulled up by the roots, came to hear him^ 

Et comitem quercum pinus arnica trahit. 

Arion made fishes follow him, which, as common experience 
evinceth, are much affected with musick. All singing birds are much 
pleased with it, especially nightingales, if we may believe Calcagninus ; 
and bees among the rest, though they be flying away when they hear 
any tingling sound, will tarry behinde. Harts, hindes, horses, dogs, 
bears, are exceedingly delighted with it. Seal, exerc. 302. Elephants, 
Agrippa addes lib. 1 cap. 24. And in Lydia in the midst of a lake 
there be certain floating ilands, (if ye will believe it,) that, after musick, 
will dance. — Anatomy of Melancholy. 



104.— LIFE COMPARED TO A SEA. 

[QUARLES, 1592 1644. 

[Francis Quarles, born in Essex in 1592, was educated at Christ College, Cambridge, 
and studied law at Lincoln's Inn, He was persecuted for his devotion to Charles I., 
and his library was plundered. This is said to have hastened his death, which 
occurred September 8, 1644. Though he produced many poetical and prose com- 
positions, he is chiefly known by his " Emblems, Divine and Moral," first published 
in 1635.] 

Let not the water floods overfloiv vie, neither let the deeps sicallow me up. 
Psalm Ixii. 15. 

The world's a sea ; my flesh a ship that's manned 
With lab'ring thoughts, and steered by reason's hand. 
My heart's the seaman's card whereby she sails j 
My loose afi^e( tions are the greater sails j 



Quarles.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 255 

The top-sail is my fancy, and the gusts 

That fill these wanton sheets, are worldly lusts. 

Prayer is the cable, at whose end appears 

The anchor hope, ne'er slipped but in our fears : 

My will's th' unconstant pilot, that commands 

The stagg'ring keel 3 my sins are like the sands : 

Repentance is the bucket, and mine eye 

The pump unused (but in extremes) and dry : 

My conscience is the plummet that does press 

The deeps, but seldom cries, O fathomless : 

Smooth calm's security : the gulph, despair ; 

My freight's corruption, and this life's my fare : 

My soul's the passenger, confusedly driven 

From fear to fright ; her landing port is heaven. 

My seas are stormy, and my ship doth leak ; 

My sailers rude 3 my steers-man faint and weak : 

My canvas torn, it flaps from side to side : 

My cable's crack' t, my anchor's slightly tied. 

My pilot's crazed 3 my ship-wrack sands are cloaked j 

My bucket's broken, and my pump is choaked 3 

My calm's deceitful 3 and my gulf too near 3 

My wares are slubbered,* and my fare's too dear : 

My plummet's light, it cannot sink nor sound 3 

O shall my rock-bethreatened soul be drowned ? 

Lord, still the seas, and shield my ship from harm j 

Instruct my sailors, guide my steersman's arm : 

Touch thou my compass, and renew my sails. 

Send stiffer courage or send milder gales 3 

Make strong my cable, bind my anchor faster j 

Direct my pilot, and be thou his master 3 

Object the sands to my more serious view. 

Make sound my bucket, bore my pump anew : 

New-cast my plummet, make it apt to try 

Where the rocks lurk, and where the quick-sands lie j 

Guard thou the gulf with love, my calms with care ; 

Cleanse thou my freight 3 accept my slender fare ; 

Refresh the sea-sick passenger 5 cut short 

His voyage 3 land him in his wished port : 



* Nares gives as one of the meanings of to slubber, "to obscure or darken, as by 
smearing over." He quotes Othello i. 3. " \'ou must be content therefore to slubber 
the gloss of your new fortune with this more stubborn and boisterous expeditioEu** 



256 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Barrow. 

Thou, then, whom winds and stormy seas obey. 
That through the deep gavest grumbhng Israel way. 
Say to my soqI, be safe 5 and then mine eye 
Shall scorn grim death, although grim death stand by. 
O thou whose strength-reviving arm did cherish 
Thy sinking Peter, at the point to perish, 
Reach forth thy hand, or bid me tread the wave, 
I'll come, I'll come : the voice that calls will save. 

The confluence of lust makes a great tempest, which in this sea 
disturbeth the sea-faring soul, that reason cannot govern it. — St. 
Ambrose. Apol. post, pro David, cap. 3. 

We labour in the boisterous sea : thou standest upon the shore and 
seest our dangers -, give us grace to hold a middle course between 
Scylla and Charybdis, that, both dangers escaped, we may arrive at the 
port secure. — St. Augustine. Soliloq. cap. 3^. 

Epig. II. 

My soul, the seas are rough, and thou a stranger 
In these false coasts j O keep aloof 3 there's danger: 
Cast forth thy plummet ; see a rock appears ; 
Thy ship wants sea-room ; make it with thy tears. 

Emblems, Divine and Moral, book iii. No. xi. 



105.— EXAMPLE BETTER THAN PRECEPT. 

[Rev. Dr. Isaac Barrow, 1630 — 1677. 

[Isaac Barrow, the son of Thomas Barrow, linen-draper to Charles I., was born m 
1630, and educated at the Charterhouse, and Peterhouse and Trinity Colleges, 
Cambridge. From 1655 to 1659 he travelled on the Continent. He was appointed 
Greek professor at Cambridge in 1660, and Gresham Professor of Geometry in 1662. 
These he resigned on being made Lucasian Professor of Mathematics in Cambridge 
University in 1663, and from this he retired in favour of Sir Isaac Newton in 1669. 
He was presented to a small living in Wales, and a prebendal stall at Salisbury, both 
of which he resigned on being appointed Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, in 
1672. He was chosen vice-chancellor in 1675. During his lifetime he published 
several mathematical and scientific works, but his theological writings first appeared 
in the folio edition of his works, edited by Dr. Tillotson, and published in four vols, 
in 1683 — 7. A life by Mr. Hill was prefixed. Barrow died May 4, 1677, and was 
buried in Westminster Abbey. Dr. Dibdin says: "Barrow had the clearest head 
with which mathematics ever endowed an individual, and one of the purest and most 
unsophisticated hearts that ever beat in the human breast." Hallam (Lit. Hist., 
pt. iv. ch. 2) remarks : "The sermons of Barrow display a strength of mind, a com- 
prehensiveness and fertility, which have rarely been equalled."] 



Barrow.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 257 

Examples do more compendiously, easily, and pleasantly inform our 
minds, and direct our practice, than precepts, or any other way or in- 
strument of discipline. Precepts are delivered in an universal and 
abstracted manner, naked, and void of all circumstantial attire, without 
any intervention, assistance, or suffrage of sense -, and, consequently, 
can have no vehement operation upon the fancy, and soon do fly the 
memory ; like flashes of lightning, too subtle to make any great 
impression, or to leave any remarkable footsteps, upon what they en- 
counter 3 they must be expressed in nice terms, and digested in exact 
method 3 they are various, and in many disjointed pieces conspire to 
make up an entire body of direction : they do also admit of divers 
cases, and require many exceptions, or restrictions, which to apprehend 
distinctly, and retain long in memory, needs a tedious labour, and con- 
tinual attention of mind, together with a piercing and steady judgment. 
But good example, with less trouble, more speed, and greater efficacy, 
causes us to comprehend the business, representing it like a picture 
exposed to sense, having the parts orderly disposed and completely 
united, suitably clothed and dressed up in its circumstances: contained 
in a narrow compass, and perceptible by one glance, so easily insinuating 
itself into the fancy, and durably resting therein : in it you see at once 
described the thing done, the quality of the actor, the manner of doing, 
the minute seasons, measures, and adjuncts of the action ; with all 
which you might not perhaps, by numerous rules, be acquainted 3 and 
this in the most facile, familiar, and delightful way of instruction, 
which is by experience, history, and observation of sensible events. A 
system of precepts, though exquisitely compacted, is, in comparison, but 
a skeleton, a dry, meagre, lifeless bulk, exhibiting nothing of person, 
place, time, manner, degree, wherein chiefly the flesh and blood, the 
colours and graces, the life and soul of things do consist • whereby 
they please, affect, and move us : but example imparts thereto a goodly 
corpulency, a life, a motion 3 renders it conspicuous, specious, and 
active, transforming its notional universality into the reality of singular 
subsistence. This discourse is verified by various experience 3 for we 
find in all masters of art and science explicating, illustrating, and con- 
firming their general rules and precepts by particular example. Mathe- 
maticians demonstrate their theorems by schemes and diagrams, which 
in effect, are but sensible instances 3 orators back their enthymemes 
(or rational argumentations) with inductions (or singular examples) 3 
philosophers allege the practice of Socrates, Zeno, and the like persons 
of famous wisdom and virtue, to authorize their doctrine : politics and 
civil prudence is more easily and sweetly drawn oat of good history, 
than out of books de Repuhlicd. Artificers describe models, and set 
patterns before their disciples, with greater success ;.han if they should 

8 



258 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Barrow. 

deliver accurate rules and precepts to them. For who would not more 
readily learn to build, by viewing carefully the parts and frame of a 
well contrived structure, than by a studious inquiry into the rules of 
architecture ; or to draw by setting a good picture before him, than by 
merely speculating upon the laws of perspective j or to write fairly 
and expeditely, by imitating one good copy, than by hearkening to a 
thousand oral prescriptions ; the understanding of which, and faculty 
of applying them to practice, may prove more difficult and tedious, than 
the whole practice itself as directed by a copy ? Neither is the case 
much different in moral concernments ; one good example may repre- 
sent more fully and clearly to us the nature of a virtue, than any ver- 
bose description thereof can do : in sooner time, and with greater ease, 
we may learn our duty by regarding the deportment of some excellent 
person, than by attending to many philosophical discourses concerning 
it : for instance, if we desire to know what faith is, and how we 
should rely upon Divine Providence, let us propose to our consideration 
the practice of Abraham j wherein we may see the Father of the 
Faithful leaving a most pleasant country, the place of his nativity, and 
questionless most dear unto him under that notion ; deserting his home 
and fixed habitation, his estate and patrimony, his kindred and 
acquaintance, to wander he knew not where in unknown lands, with 
all his family, leading an uncertain and ambulatory life in tents, 
sojourning and shifting among strange people, devoid of piety and 
civility (among Canaanites and Egyptians) upon a bare confidence in 
the Divine protection and guidance : we may see him, aged ninety- 
nine years, yet with a steady belief assuring himself, that he should, by 
virtue of God's Omnipotent word, become the father of a mighty 
nation : we may see him upon the first summons of the Divine com- 
mand, without scruple or hesitancy, readily and cheerfully yielding up 
his only son (the sole ground of his hope and prop of his family, to 
whose very person the promise of multiplication was affixed) to be 
sacrificed and slain ; not objecting to his own reason the palpable in- 
consistency of counsels so repugnant, nor anxiously labouring to recon- 
cile the seeming contrariety between the Divine promises and com- 
mands 3 but resolved as it were (with an implicit faith in God) to 
believe things incredible, and to rely upon events impossible : contem- 
plating these things, let us say what discourse could so livelily describe 
the nature of true faith, as this illustrious precedent doth. — Sermon 
xxxii.. On being [mitators of Christ, i Cor. iv. 16. 



Jeffrey.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 259 



106.— LORD BYRON'S POETRY. 

[Francis Jeffrey, 1773 — 1850. 

[Francis Jeffrey, born at Edinburgh, Oct. 23, 1773, was educated at the universities 
of Glasgow, Oxford, and Edinburgh. In 1794 he was called to the Scotch bar, and 
soon after began to contribute to the " Monthly Review.'' From 1803 to 1829 he 
was editjr of the " Edinburgh Review." In 1821 he was elected Lord Rector of 
Glasgow University, in 1829 Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and in 1830 Lord 
Advocate of Scotland. He was elected member for Edinburgh in 183 1, and in 
1834 was raised to the Scotch bench, and became Lord Jeffrey. He died at Craig- 
crook Castle, near Edinburgh, Jan. 26, 1850. His contributions to the " Edinburgh 
Review" were republished in 1844, and a life of Jeffrey, by Lord Cockburn, appeared 
in 1852. Sir A. Alison says " he was fitted by nature to be a great critic."] 

If the finest poetry be that which leaves the deepest impression on the 
minds of its readers — and this is not the worst test of its excellence — 
Lord Byron^ we think, must be allowed to take precedence of all his 
distinguished contemporaries. He has not the variety of Scott — nor 
the delicacy of Campbell — nor the absolute truth of Crabbe — nor the 
polished sparkling of Moore j but in force of diction, and inextin- 
guishable energy of sentiment, he clearly surpasses them aU. " Words 
that breathe, and thoughts that burn," are not merely the ornaments, 
but the common staple, of his poetry ; and he is not inspired or im- 
pressive only in some happy passages, but through the whole body and 
tissue of his composition. It was an unavoidable condition, perhaps, of 
tliis higher excellence, that his scene should be narrow, and his persons 
few. To compass such ends as he had in view, it was necessary to 
reject all ordinary agents, and all trivial combinations. He could not 
possibly be amusing, or ingenious, or playful ; or hope to maintain the 
requisite pitch of interest by the recitation of sprightly adventures, or 
the opposition of common characters. To produce great eifects, in 
short, he felt that it was necessary to deal only with the greater 
passions — with the exaltations of a daring fancy, and the errors of a 
lofty intellect — with the pride, the terrors, and the agonies of strong 
emotion — the fire and air alone of our human elements. 

In this respect, and in his general notion of the end and the means 
of poetry, we have sometimes thought that his views feU more in with 
those of the Lake poets, than of any other existing party in the poetical 
commonwealth : and, in some of his later productions especially, it is 
impossible not to be struck with his occasional approaches to the style 
and manner of this class of writers. Lord Byron, however, it should 
be observed, like all other persons of a quick sense of beauty, and sure 
enough of their own originality to be in no fear of paltry imputations, 
is a great mimic of styles and manners, and a great borrower of 
external character. He and Scott, accordingly, are full of miitations 

s 2 



26o ' THE EVERY- DAY BOOK [Gerstaecker. 

of all the writers from whom they have ever derived gratification 5 and 
the two most original writers of the age might appear, to superficial 
observers, to be the most deeply indebted to their predecessors. In 
this particular instance, we have no fault to find with Lord Byron ; 
for undoubtedly the finer passages of Wordsworth and Southey have in 
them wherewithal to lend an impulse to the utmost ambition of rival 
genius ; and their diction and manner of writing is frequently both 
striking and original. But we may say, that it would afford us still 
greater pleasure to find these tuneful gentlemen returning the compli- 
ment which Lord Byron has here paid to their talents ; and forming 
themselves on the model rather of his imitations, than of their own 
originals. In those imitations they will find that, though he is some- 
times abundantly mystical, he never, or at least very rarely, indulges in 
absolute nonsense — never takes his lofty flights upon mean or ridiculous 
occasions, — and, above all, never dilutes his strong conceptions, and 
magnificent imaginations, with a flood of oppressive verbosity. On 
the contrary, he is, of all living writers, the most concise and 
condensed ; and, we would fain hope, may go far, by his example, to 
redeem the great reproach of our modern literature — its intolerable 
prolixity and redundance. In his nervous and manly lines, we find no 
elaborate amphfication of common sentiments — no ostentatious polish- 
ing of pretty expressions ; and we really think that the brilliant success 
which has rewarded his disdain of those paltry artifices, should pat to 
shame for ever that puling and self-admiring race, who can live 
through half a volume on the stock of a single thought, and expatiate 
over divers fair quarto pages with the details of one tedious descrip- 
tion. In Lord Byron, on the contrary, we have a perpetual stream of 
thick-coming fancies — an eternal stream of fresh-blown images, which 
seem called into existence by the sudden flash of those glowing 
thoughts and overwhelming emotions, that struggle for expression 
through the whole flow of his poetry— and impart to a diction that is 
often abrupt and irregular, a force and a charm which frequently 
realize all that is said of inspiration. — Contributions to the Edinburgh 
Review, 



107.— THE OFFICER AND THE CONVICT. 

[Gerstaecker, 1816. 

[Frederick Gerstaecker, born at Hamburg, May 16, 1816, emigrated to America 
at an early age, and travelled on foot through Canada and the United States, following 
the most humble occupations in order to obtain means of existence. On his 
return to Germany in 1842, he published an account of his travels. His romances. 



Gerstaecker.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 261 

"The Regulators of Arkansas" appeared in 1846, and the "Pirates of the 
Mississippi" in 1848. The years between 1849 ^^d 1852 were spent by this 
enterprising traveller in visiting Australia and various parts of the American con- 
tinent. Since his return to Germany he has published several works of fiction and 
books of tiavel. "The Two Convicts" appeared in 1854.] 

Lieutenant Walker sat at the window of McDonald's room, with 
his arms crossed on his breast, and looking up in silence and meditation 
at the Southern Cross, which shone brightly in the firmament. Time 
passed rapidly — an hour he remained in this posture, without giving a 
sign of impatience. Below all was silent, and most of the lights 
which had first cast their rays on the fences, were put out. Nothing 
stiiTcd — the stillness of death reigned in the house, and nothing was 
heard but the monotonous ticking of an old German clock, whichj 
with its regular and loud motion, seemed to cut time into small 
pieces. 

The lamp, covered with a dark shade, shed a subdued light over the 
room. Suddenly steps were heard in the street. The lieutenant 
listened : they came nearer, and stopped before the house. He could 
distinctly hear the key in the lock, the door open and shut again, and 
the steps of some one passing through the dark passage and ascending 
the stairs. 

The lieutenant stood up, but remained by the window. A hand 
was laid upon the latch — the door opened, and McDonald entered. 

He looked pale and fatigued, but perfectly calm, and without 
perceiving the stranger, went to the lamp, lifted the shade, and raised 
the wick. 

" Good evening, M'Donald," said the deep and sonorous voice of 
Lieutenant Walker 5 and M'Donald, on hearing these sounds, started 
back, as if stung by an adder. The surprise lasted only a moment. With 
his left hand he turned the shade of the lamp so as to throw the full light 
upon the countenance of his antagonist, and with the right he drew a 
double-barrelled pistol from his pocket, cocked it, and said, in a quiet 
voice, but choked with suppressed emotion : 

" Lieutenant Walker, you have attained your aim ; but probably in 
a sense different from that you expect. You have ventured within 
the power of a desperate man, and must bear the consequence. 
For my own part, I am tired of this life. Hunted, pursued like a 
wild beast, with the blood-hounds on its track, night and day, — who 
would wish to live thus ?" 

Lieutenant Walker listened to him quietly, with his arms still 
crossed upon his breast. At last he said — 

" What if I did not come as an enemy — if I brought you peace and 
quietness, M'Donald !" 



262 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Gerstaecker. 

"Those are only to be found in the grave!" the unfortunate man 
replied, in a hollow voice. 

" Put down your weapon, sir," continued Walker, in an almost 
friendly voice. '' I am alone ; my men are not in the neighbourhood, 
although they were lying in ambush round the house for an hour or 
two." 

"Betrayed, after all, then," said M'Donald, with a bitter smile. 

"You have no cause to complain of that," replied Walker, 
laughing. " Do not look at me so gloomily. If my heart were not 
at this moment light and glad — if I brought you only imprisonment 
and fresh tortures — I should certainly not be laughing. But to- 
morrow's sun will find you a happier man. I bring you life and 
liberty." 

"Yon?" exclaimed M'Donald, with astonishment, yet not without 
suspicion. 

"It may appear strange to you," said Walker, laughing, " that a 
lieutenant of the police should engage in such, I might say, negative 
occupations J but such is the case, nevertheless. But — " he added, 
suddenly, in a frank manner, " be assured, McDonald, that, from the day 
when we fought side by side against the blacks, I felt you were a different 
man from what the world supposed. From that day it was with 
reluctance that I fulfilled my duty. I certainly endeavoured to execute 
it, because it was my duty." 

" I do not understand you," said M'Donald, astonished at the 
extraordinary conduct of the man. 

"I will no longer keep you in suspense. Let us sit down!" he 
added, as, unbuckling his sabre, he placed it in a corner, drew a chair 
to the table, and sat down. M'Donald, who still held the pistol in his 
hand, laid it upon a chest of drawers, locked the door to guard against 
any surprise, and also sat down to the table. 

"Still suspicious!" observed Walker, laughing. "But — you are 
right. I have hitherto done nothing to entitle me to your confidence, 
liisten to me quietly ; the sequel of my short narration will perhaps 
give you a better opinion of me." 

" We met yesterday for the second time, in company," the lieutenant 
commenced, with a smile ; " and I must confess the blue spectacles 
and your German entirely deceived me. I had no notion you were 
so well acquainted with a foreign tongue, although your figure and 
appearance seemed familiar to me. This morning an old acquaintance 
of ours, allured by the hundred pounds reward offered for your appre- 
hension, disclosed to me that Dr. Schreiber, at Lischke's, was no other 
than the notorious Jack Loudon." 

" Red John !" exclaimed M'Donald, with a smile of contempt. 



Gerstaecker.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 263 

" Not exactly, although I have since heard that gentleman had a 
hand in the affair. We caught him this evening, and he will soon get 
his richly-merited reward — the gallows. No : the informer was once 
a hut-keeper upon Mr. Powell's station, who was known there under 
the name of Miller, but whose real name is Hohburg." 

"Hohburg!" exclaimed M'Donald, starting from his chair with 
horror. " That was Miller ! Now I understand why that face 
seemed so familiar to me, and the strange and inexplicable feeling 
which always came over me when I looked into those eyes !" 

" Pray sit still !" said the lieutenant ; '^ you will hear things stranger 
still. The fellow looked horrible, with his matted hair, pale face, 
deep-sunken eyes, and trembling limbs — indeed, the very image of one 
ruined by drink. I was bound to make use of the information, 
M'Donald ; but I give you my word that I would sooner have struck 
the informer to the ground than arrest you. I therefore issued my 
orders, sent a constable here in disguise to inquire after you, and sur- 
rounded the house, which was to have been searched by my men 
somewhere about this time. I committed to my sergeant the execu- 
tion of the enterprise, as I did not wish to have anything further to do 
with it myself." 

"And now ?" 

" I have sent my men to their quarters, and come to talk over with 
you the events of this day. Listen. I thought you were under the 
penalty of law, but I also thought that you were not to be classed with 
ordinary criminals. Not wishing to see you after you had been 
arrested, towards evening I rode out of Saaldorf, in order to pay a 
visit to the magistrate of the next town, intending to return to-morrow 
morning, when all should, as I hoped, be over. On my way, at a 
short distance off, I passed a small house, which stands alone by the 
road-side, nesthng in the bush. Hearing wild and heart-rending cries, 
I stopped my horse. The next instant the thought struck me that my 
men had maintained they had come upon the tracks of Red John in 
this neighbourhood. The cry of terror inside was perhaps, I thought, 
his work ; and, turning my horse, I sprang out of the saddle, threw 
the reins over a bush, took the pistols out of the holsters, and rushed 
to the door of the hut. I found my weapons were not wanted, but 
my presence was the more opportune. 

" In the middle of the poor but clean room a man was stretched 
out upon a mattress. This was Miller, or Hohburg, in a state of mad- 
ness. A pale woman sat in the corner of the room, with clasped 
hands and lixed looks, and a man, the captain of a German ship in 
the port of Adelaide, was kneeling by his side. The woman did not 
even notice my sudden entrance with pistols in my hands. Her eyes 



264 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tytler. 

wandered meaningless past me, and were again fixed upon the ground. 
The captain seemed delighted at my arrival, and, in a fearful state of 
agitation, he took hold of my hand and led me to the couch of the 
unfortunate man. 

" M 'Donald," continued Walker, after a short pause, during which 
he appeared agitated in an unusual manner, " I will no longer keep 
you on the rack. You were transported for the murder of an Irish 
gentleman. Do not interrupt me — I this evening took the depositions 
of the real murderer, who acknowledged his crime." 

'^'Tlohburg !" cried M'Donald, horror-stricken. " Good God !" 
''Stung with remorse," Walker continued, with emotion, " and 
feeling the approach of death, he acknowledged in my pi-esence and 
that of the German, his crime, and your innocence. Then he tried to 
rise, to go to Adelaide and give himself up to justice 5 but his enfeebled 
body was completely exhausted. He sank back upon the couch and 
died, uttering curses, in tlie arms of the captain." — The Two Convicts, 
ch. xxxi. 



108.— THE CHARACTER OF JAMES III. OF SCOTLAND. 

[Tytler, 1791 — 1849. 

[Patrick Eraser Tytler, born Aug. 30, 1791, the fourth son of Lord Wood- 
houselee, was educated at Edinburgh, and in 18 13 became a member of the Scottish 
Faculty of Advocates. Tytler applied himself to literature, and published his " Life 
of James Crichton of Cluny, commonly called the Admirable Crichton," in 1819. His 
" Memoir of Sir Thomas Craig of Riccarton" was published in 1823. The first and 
second volumes of his "History of Scotland" appeared in 1828; the third in 1829; 
the fourth in 1831 ; the fifth in 1834; the sixth in 1837; the seventh in 1840; the 
eighth in 1842; and the ninth in 1843. Tytler, who was the author of numerous 
other works, obtained a royal pension in 1844, ^^^ he died at Malvern, Dec. 24, 
1849. -^ memoir, by J. W. Burgon, was published in 1859.] 

When we find the popular historians departing so widely from the 
truth in the false and partial colouring which they have thrown over 
the history of this reign, we may be permitted to receive their personal 
character of the monarch with considerable suspicion. James's great 
fault seems to have been a devotion to studies and accomplishments 
which, in this rude and warlike age, were deemed unworthy of his 
rank and dignity. He was an enthusiast in music, and took delight in 
architecture, and the construction of splendid and noble palaces and 
buildings 5 he was fond of rich and gorgeous dresses, and ready to 
spend large sums in the encouragement of the most skilful and curious 
workers in gold and steel ; and the productions of these artists, their 
inlaid armour, massive gold chains, and jewel-hilted daggers, were pur- 



Tytler.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 265 

chased by him at high prices, whilst they themselves were admitted, if 
we believe the same writers, to an intimacy and friendship with the 
sovereign which disgusted the nobility. The true account of this was 
probably, that James received these ingenious artisans into his palace, 
where he gave them employment, and took pleasure in superintending 
their labours — an amusement for which he might have pleaded the 
example of some of the wisest and most popular sovereigns. But the 
barons, for whose rude and unintellectual society the monarch showed 
little predilection, returned the neglect with which they were unwisely 
treated, by pouring contempt and ridicule upon the pursuits to which 
he was devoted. Cochrane, the architect, who had gained favour with 
the king by his genius in an art which, in its higher branches, is emi- 
nently intellectual, was stigmatized as a low mason. Rogers, whose 
musical compositions were fitted to refine and improve the barbarous 
taste of the age, and whose works were long after highly esteemed in 
Scotland, was ridiculed as a common fiddler or buffoon 5 and other 
artists, whose talents had been warmly encouraged by the sovereign, 
were treated with the same indignity. It would be absurd, however, 
from the evidence of such interested witnesses, to form our opinion of 
the true character of his favourites, as they have been termed, or of the 
encouragement which they received from the sovereign. To the 
Scottish barons of this age, Phidias would have been but a stone- 
cutter, and Apelles no better than the artisan who stained their oaken 
wainscot. The error of the king lay, not so much in the encourage- 
ment of ingenuity and excellence, as in the indolent neglect of those 
duties and cares of government, which were in no degree incompatible 
with his patronage of the fine arts. Had he possessed the energy and 
powerful intellect of his grandfather — had he devoted the greater por- 
tion of his time to the administration of justice, to a friendly inter- 
course with his feudal nobles, and a strict and watchful superintendence 
of their conduct in the offices entrusted to them, he might safely have 
employed his leisure in any way most agreeable to him ; but it 
happened to this prince, as it has to many a devotee of taste and sensi- 
bility, that a too exquisite perception of excellence in the fine arts, 
and an enthusiastic love for the studies intimately connected with them, 
in exclusion of more ordinary duties, produced an indolent refinement, 
which shrunk from common exertion, and transformed a character 
originally full of intellectual and moral promise, into that of a secluded, 
but not unamiable misanthropist. Nothing can justify the king's in- 
attention to the cares of government, and the recklessness with which 
he shut his ears to the complaints and remonstrances of the nobility 3 
but that he was cruel, unjust, or unforgiving — that he was a selfish and 
avaricious voluptuary — or that he drew upon himself, by these dark 



266 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Clarke. 

portions of his character, the merited execration and vengeance of his 
nobles, is a representation founded on no authentic evidence, and con- 
tradicted by the uniform history of his reign and of his misfortunes. — 
History of Scotland, vol. iii. ch. iv. 



109.— THE CALMUCKS. 

[Dr. Clarke, 1769 — 1822. 
[Edward Daniel Clarke, born at Willingdon, Sussex, was educated at Cambridge, 
and acted as tutor and travelling-companion from 1792 to 1799. In the latter year 
he started on an extensive tour through parts of Europe and Asia, and did not return 
till 1802. He obtained a college living in 1805, was made professor of mineralogy 
at Cambridge in 1807, and he presented the university of Cambridge vnth some of 
the valuable marbles which he had collected. The first volume of his travels 
appeared in 1810, the second in 1812, the third in 1813, the fourth in 1816, the 
fifth in 1819, and the sixth in 1823. His Life and Remains by his friend the Rev. 
W. Otter appeared in 1824. Dr. Clarke died March 9, 1822. Dr. Dibdin says: — 
"The splendour and celebrity of all travels performed by Englishmen have been 
exceeded by those of the late and deeply-lamented Dr. Edward Clarke. * * * 
Upon the whole, if Humboldt be the first, Clarke is the second traveller of his 
age."] 

Of all the inhabitants of the Russian empire, the Calmucks are the 
most distinguished by peculiarity of feature and manner. In personal 
appearance, they are athletic and revolting. Their hair is coarse and 
black J their language harsh and guttural. They inhabit Thibet, 
Bucharia, and the countries lying to the north of Persia, India, and 
China -, but, from their vagrant habits, they may be found in all the 
southern parts of Russia, even to the banks of the Dnieper. The 
Cossacks alone esteem them, and intermarry with them. This union 
sometimes produces women of very great beauty j although nothing is 
more hideous than a Calmuck. High, prominent, and broad cheek- 
bones ; very little eyes, widely separated from each other 3 a flat and 
broad nose j coarse, greasy, jet-black hair 3 scarcely any eye-brows j 
and enormous prominent ears ; compose no very inviting countenance, 
however we may strive to do it justice. Their women are uncom- 
monly hardy ; and on horseback outstrip their male companions in the 
race. The stories related of their placing pieces of horse-flesh under 
the saddle, in order to prepare them for food, are true. They acknow- 
ledge that this practice was common among them during a journey, 
and that a steak so dressed became tender and palatable. In their 
large camps, they have cutlers, and other artificers in copper, brass, 
and iron : sometimes goldsmiths, who make trinkets for their women, 
idols of gold and silver, and vessels for their altars ; also persons expert 
at inlaid work, enamelling, and many arts vainly believed peculiar to 



Clarke.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 267 

nations in a state of refinement. One very remarkable fact, confirming 
the observations of other travellers, may bear repetition ; namely, that, 
from time immemorial, the more Oriental tribes of Calmucks have 
possessed the art of making gunpowder. They boil the efflorescence 
of nitrate of potass in a strong lye of poplar and birch ashes, and leave 
it to crystallize -, after this, they pound the crystals with two parts of 
sulphur, and as much charcoal ; then, wetting the mixture, they place 
it in a caldron over a charcoal lire, until the powder begins to 
granulate. The generality of Calmucks, when equipped for war, 
protect the head by a helmet of steel with a gilded crest 5 to this is 
fixed a net- work of iron rings, falling over the neck and shoulders, and 
hanging as low as the eye-brows in front. They wear upon their body, 
after the Eastern manner, a tissue of similar work, formed of iron or 
steel rings matted together : this adapts itself to the shape, and yields 
readily to all positions of the body ; and ought therefore rather to be 
called a shirt than a coat of mail. The most beautiful of these are 
manufactured in Persia, and valued at the price of fifty horses, The 
cheaper sort are made of scales of tin, and sell only for six or eight 
horses each : but these are more common among the Chinese and the 
Mogul territory. Their other arms are lances, bows and arrows, 
poignards, and sabres. Only the richer Calmucks carry fire-arms : 
these are therefore always regarded as marks of distinction, and kept 
with the utmost care in cases made of badgers' skins. Their most 
valuable bows are constructed of the wild-goat's horn, or of whalebone 5 
the ordinary sort, of maple, or thin slips of elm or fir, fastened together, 
and bound with a covering of linden or birch bark. 

Their amusements are, hunting, wrestling, archery, and horse- racing. 
They are not addicted to drunkenness, although they hold drinking- 
parties, continuing for half-a-day at a time, without interruption. 
Upon such occasions, every one brings his share of brandy and Koumiss j 
and the whole stock is placed upon the ground, in the open airj the 
guests forming a circle, seated around it. One of them, squatted by 
the vessels containing the liquor, performs the office of cup-bearer. 
The young women place themselves by the men, and begin songs of 
love or war, of fabulous adventure, or heroic achievement. Thus the 
fete is kept up 5 the guests passing the cup round, and singing the whole 
time, until the stock of liquor is expended. During all this ceremony, 
no one is seen to rise from the party ; nor does any one interrupt the 
harmony of the assembly by riot or intoxication. In the long nights of 
winter, the young people of both sexes amuse themselves with music, 
dancing, and singing. Their most common musical instrument is the 
lala-laika, or two-stringed lyre ; often represented in their paintings. 
These paintings preserve very curious memorials of the ancient super- 



268 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Addison. 

stition of Eastern nations 3 exhibiting objects of Pagan worship which 
were common to the earliest mytholog}- of Egypt and of Greece. The 
arts of painting and music may be supposed to have continued httle 
hable to akeration among the Calmucks from the remotest periods of 
their hhtory. As for their dances^ these consist more in movements of 
the hands and arms, than of the feet. In winter they play at cards, 
draughts, backgammon, and chess. Their love of gambling is so great, 
that they will spend entire nights at play ; and lose in a single sitting 
the whole of what they possess, even to the clothes upon their body. 
In short, it may be said of the Calmucks that the greatest part of their 
life is spent in amusement. Wretched and revolting as they seem, 
they would be indeed miserable if compelled to change their mode of 
living for that of a more civilized people. — Travels in Europe, Asia, 
and Africa, vol. i. chap. 12. 



T 10.— SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT CHURCH. 

[Addison, 1672 — 1719. 

[Joseph Addison, son of the Rev. Lancelot Addison, born at Milston, in Wiltshire, 
May I, 1672, was educated at Oxford. Having in 1699 obtained a pension of 300Z. 
a year, he set out on a Continental tour. He returned in 1702, and remained with- 
out employment till 1704, when his celebrated poem, "The Campaign," procured 
him a Commissionership of Appeals. In 1706 he became Under-Secretar\- of State, 
and published his opera of "Rosamond." On the appointment of the Marquis of 
Wharton as Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland in 1709, he became his secretary. It was in 
this year that the "Tatler" appeared, to which Addison contributed. The "Spec- 
tator" was produced Jan. 2, 171 1, and was succeeded by the "Guardian," in 171 2. 
The tragedy of "Cato" was brought out in 1713, and the "Freeholder," in support 
of the Government, was commenced in 1715, and continued till 1716. In 171 7 
Addison was appointed Secretary of State, which office he resigned in 1718, and 
died at Holland House, Kensington, June 17, 17 19. " Whoever," says Dr. Johnson, 
" wishes to attain an English style, familiar, but not coarse, and elegant, but not 
ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the study of Addison." Dr. Johnson 
gives an account of Addison in his "Lives of the Poets." Several editions of his 
collected works have been published.] 

I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if 
keeping holy the Seventh Day were only a human Institution, it would 
be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and 
civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon 
degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such 
frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet 
together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to con- 
verse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties 
explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme 



Addison.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 269 

Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as 
it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both 
the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting 
all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the 
village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the 
churchyard, as a citizen does upon the Change, the whole parish 
pohticks being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or 
before the bell rings. 

My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the 
inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing : he has 
likewise given a handsome palpit-cloth, and railed in the communion 
table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming 
to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular ; and that in order 
to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave to every one 
of them a hassock and a Common Prayer Book 3 and at the same 
time employed an itinerant singing master, who goes about the 
country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the 
Psalms J upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed 
outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord of the whole congregation, he keeps 
them in very good order, and will suiFer nobody to sleep in it besides 
hknself j for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at 
sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, 
and if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or 
sends his servants to them. Several other of the old Knight's parti- 
cularities break out upon these occasions : sometimes he will be 
lengthening out a verse in the singing-psalms, half a minute after 
the rest of the congregation have done with it 3 sometimes, when he 
is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three 
or four times to the same prayer ; and sometimes stands up when every- 
body else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any 
of his tenants are missing. 

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the 
midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what 
he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews 
it seems is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was 
kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the Knight, 
though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all 
circumstances of life, has a very good efi:ect upon the parish, who are 
not poHte enough to see anything ridiculous in his behaviour ; besides 
that the general good sense and worthiness of his character makes his 
friends observe these little singularities and foUs that rather set otF 
than blemish his good qualities. 



27© THE E^'ERY-DAY BOOK [Addison. 

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir 
Roger is gone out of the church. The Knight walks down from his 
seat in the chancel, between a double row of his tenants, that stand 
bowing to him on each side : and every now and then inquires how such 
an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see 
at charch : which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person 
that is absent. 

The Chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising day, when 
Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has 
ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement 3 
and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. 
Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place j 
and that he may encourage the youn^ fellows to make themselves 
perfect in the Church Service, has promised upon the death of the 
present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit. 

The fair understanding bet^veen Sir Roger and his Chaplain, and 
their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, 
because the very next village is famous for the differences and con- 
tentions that rise between the Parson and the 'Squire, who live in a 
perpetual state of war. The Parson is always preaching at the 
'Squire, and the 'Squire to be revenged on the Parson never comes 
to church. The 'Squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe 
stealers 3 while the Parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity 
of his order, and insinuates to them in almost every sermon, that he 
is a better man than his patron. In short, matters are come to such 
an extremity, that the 'Squire has not said his prayers either in publick 
or private this half year 3 and that the Parson threatens him, if he 
does not mend his manners, to pray for him in tlie face of the whole 
congregation. 

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very 
fatal to the ordinary people 3 who are so used to be dazzled with 
riches, that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a 
man of an estate, as of a man of learning 3 and are very hardly 
brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that is 
preached to them, when they know there are several men of five 
hundred a year who do not believe it. — The Spectator, No. 112. 
July 9, 1 7 I T . 



Rogers.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 271 

III.— EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

[Rogers, 1763 — 1855. 

[Samuel Rogers was born at Newington Green, London, July 30, 1763. His first 
publication, "An Ode to Superstition," appeared in 1786, and "The Pleasures of 
Memory," with other poems, in 1792. "Human Life," a poem, was published in 
1819, and "Italy" in 1822. A memoir of Rogers, by the Rev. A. Dyce, appeared 
in 1856, and his "Recollections," edited by W. Sharpe, in 1859. Rogers died in 
London, Dec. 18, 1855.] 

As through the garden's desert paths T rove. 
What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west. 
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest -, 
Welcomed the wild-bee home on v^eary wing. 
Laden with sweets the choicest of the spring ! 
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme. 
The bark now silvered by the touch of Time ; 
Soared in the swing, half pleased, and half afraid. 
Thro' sister elms that waved their summer- shade 3 
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat. 
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat. 

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene j 
The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green ! 
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live ! 
Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. 
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm. 
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm -, 
Thee would the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong 
The sage's precept, and the poet's song. 
What softened views thy magic glass reveals. 
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day. 
Long on the wave reflected lustres play j 
Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned 
Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 

The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey. 
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn. 
Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn : 



i 



272 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Rogers. 

Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air. 
When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, 
Some little friendship formed and cherished here^ 
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 
With golden visions, and romantic dreams ! 

Do\^Ti by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 

The gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed j 

Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe. 

Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw j 

Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; 

The drowsy brood that on her back she bore. 

Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred. 

From rilled roost at nightly revel fed ; 

Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest shade. 

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed : — 

And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call. 

Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. 

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew. 

And traced the hne of life with searching view. 

How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears. 

To learn the colour of my future years ! 

Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast j 

This truth once known — to bless is to be blest I 

We led the bending beggar on his way, 

(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey) 

Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt. 

And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. 

As in his scrip we dropt our little store. 

And sighed to think that little was no more ; 

He breathed his prayer, " Long may such goodness live !" 

'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. 

Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight. 

Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. 

Pleasures of Memory, part i. 



Paley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 273 



112.— ON THE WRITINGS OF THE APOSTLES. 

[Dr. Paley, 1743 — 1805. 

[William Paley, born at Peterborough in 1743, and educated at Cambridge, was 
senior wrangler in 1763, and fellow in 1766. He was for some time tutor at 
Cambridge, and in 1780 obtained a prebendal stall at Carlisle. He became arch- 
deacon in 1782, and chancellor of the diocese in 1785. "The Principles of Moral 
and Political Philosophy" appeared in 1785, the " Horae Paulinae" in 1790, "A View 
of the Evidences of Christianity" in 1794, and "Natural Theology, or Evidences of 
the Existence and Attributes of the Deity," in 1802. He obtained valuable prefer- 
ment, and died May 25, 1805. A memoir by G. W. Meadley was published in 
1809, and an account of his Life and Writings by his son in 1825.] 

No historical fact, I apprehend is more certain, than that tlie original 
propagators of Christianity voluntarily subjected themselves to lives of 
fatigue, danger, and suffering, in the prosecution of their undertaking. 
The nature of the undertaking ; the character of the persons employed 
in it ; the opposition of their tenets to the fixed opinions and expecta- 
tions of the country in which they first advanced them ; their undis- 
sembled condemnation of the religion of all other countries ; their 
total want of power, authority or force, render it in the highest degree 
probable that this must have been tlie case. The probability is increased, 
by what we know of the fate of the founder of the institution, who was 
put to death for his attempt 3 and by what we also know of the cruel 
treatment of the converts to the institution, within thirty years after its 
commencement : both which points are attested by heathen writers, 
and, being once admitted, leave it very incredible that the primitive 
emissaries of the religion, who exercised their ministry, first, amongst 
the people who had destroyed their master, and, afterwards amongst 
those who persecuted their converts, should themselves escape with 
impunity, or pursue their purpose in ease and safety. This probability 
thus sustained by foreign testimony, is advanced, I tliink, to historica: 
certainty, by the evidence of our own books ; by the accounts of a 
writer who was the companion of the persons whose sufferings he 
relates -, by the letters of the persons themselves ; by predictions of 
persecutions ascribed to the founder of the religion, which predictions 
would not have been inserted in his history, much less have been 
studiously dwelt upon, if they had not accorded with the event, and 
which, even if falsely ascribed to him, could only have been so ascribed 
because the event suggested them 3 lastly, by incessant exhortations to 
fortitude and patience, and by an earnestness, repetition, and urgency 
upon the subject, which were unlikely to have appeared, if there had 
not been, at the time, some extraordinary call for the exercise of these 
virtues. 

It is made out also, I tliink with sufficient evidence, that both the 

T 



274 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Paley. 

teachers and converts of the religion, in consequence of their new pro- 
fession, took up a new course of hfe and behaviour. 

I'he next question is what they did this for. That it was Jbr a 
miraculous story of some kind or other, is to my apprehension ex- 
tremely manifest ; because, as to the fundamental article, the designa- 
tion of the person, viz., that this particular person, Jesus of Nazareth, 
ought to be received as the Messiah, or as a messenger from God, they 
neither had, nor could have, anything but miracles to stand upon. That 
the exertions and sufferings of the apostles were, for the story which 
we have now, is proved by the consideration that this story is trans- 
mitted to us by two of their own number, and by two others personally 
connected with them 3 that the particularity of the narrative proves, 
that the writers claimed to possess circumstantial information, that from 
their situation they had full opportunity of acquiring such information, 
that they certainly, at least, knew what their colleagues, their com- 
panions, their masters taught ; that each of these books contains enough 
to prove the truth of the religion ; that, if any one of them therefore 
be genuine, it is sufficient ; that the genuineness however of all of them 
is made out, as well by the general arguments which evince the 
genuineness of the most undisputed remains of antiquity, as also by 
peculiar specific proofs, viz., by citations from them in writings belong- 
ing to a period immediately contiguous to that in which they were 
published 3 by the distinguished regard paid by early Christians to the 
authority of these books (which regard was manifested by their col- 
lecting of them into a volume, appropriating to that volume titles of 
peculiar respect, translating them into various languages, digesting them 
into harmonies, writing commentaries upon them, and, still more con- 
spicuously, by the reading of them in their public assemblies in all 
parts of the world) : by an universal agreement with respect to these 
books, whilst doubts were entertained concerning some others 3 by con- 
tending sects appealing to them 3 by the early adversaries of the religion 
not disputing their genuineness, but, on the contrary, treating them as 
the depositories of the history upon which the religion was founded 3 by 
many formal catalogues of these, as of certain and authoritative 
writings, published in different and distant parts of the Christian world 3 
lastly, by the absence or defect of the above-cited topics of evidence, 
when applied to any other histories of the same subject. 

These are strong arguments to prove, that the books actually pro- 
ceeded from the authors whose names they bear (and have always 
borne, for there is not a particle of evidence to show that they ever 
went under any other) 3 but the strict genuineness of the books is 
perhaps more than is necessary to the support of our proposition. For 
even supposing that, by reason of the silence of antiquity, or the loss of 



Reid.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 275 

records, we knew not who were the writers of the four gospels, yet the 
fact, that they were received as authentic accounts of the transaction 
upon which the rehgion rested, and were received as such by Ciiristians 
at or near the age of the apostles, by those whom the apostles had 
taught, and by societies which the apostles had founded ; this fact, I 
say, connected with the consideration that they are corroborative of 
each other's testimony, and that they are farther corroborated by 
another contemporary history, taking up the history where they had 
left it, and, in a narrative built upon that story, accounting for the rise 
and production of changes in the world, the effects of which subsist at 
this day ; connected, moreover, with the confirmation which they 
receive, from letters written by the apostles themselves, which both 
assume the same general story, and, as often as occasions lead them to 
do so, allude to particular parts of it 5 and connected also with the 
reflection, that if the apostles delivered any different story, it is lost (the 
present and no other being referred to by a series of Christian writers, 
down from their age to our own 3 being likewise recognised in a variety 
of institutions^ which prevailed, early and universally, amongst the 
disciples of the religion) : and that so great a change, as the oblivion of 
one story and the substitution of another, under such circumstances, 
could not have taken place : this evidence would be deemed, I appre- 
hend, sufficient to prove concerning these books, that, whoever were 
the authors of them, they exhibit the story which the apostles told, 
and for which, consequently, they acted, and they suffered. — A View 
of the Evidences of Christianity , ch. x. Recapitulation. 



113.— KNOWLEDGE OF THE MIND AND ITS FACULTIES. 

[Dr. Reid, 1710 — 1796. 

[Thomas Reid, born at Strachan, in Kincardineshire, April 26, 1710, and educated at 
the University of Aberdeen, was presented to the living: of New Machar, Aberdeen- 
shire, in 1837. He was elected professor of Moral Philosophy of King's College, 
Old Aberdeen, in 1752, and of the University of Glasgow in 1763. Though an 
indefatigable student, he did not apply his mind to original composition till late in 
life. His well-known work, "An Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles 
of Common Sense," appeared in 1763. It was followed by "Essays on the 
Intellectual and Active Powers of Man," published in 1785-8. Mr. Reid, who 
retired from his professorship in 1781, died Oct. 7, 1796. Dugald Stewart, who 
was his pupil at Glasgow, published an account of his Life and Writings in 1803.] 

Since we ought to pay no regard to hypotheses, and to be very 
suspicious of analogical reasoning, it may be asked, from what source 
must the knowledge of the mind and its faculties be drawn ? 

T 2 



276 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Reid. 

I answer, the chief and proper source of this branch of knowledge 
•/S accurate reflection upon the operations of our own minds. Of this 
source we shall speak more fully, after making some remarks upon two 
others that may be subservient to it. The first of them is attention to 
the structure of language. 

The language of mankind is expressive of their thoughts, and of the 
various operations of their minds. The various operations of the 
understanding, will, and passions, which are common to mankind, 
have various forms of speech corresponding to them in all languages, 
which are the signs of them, and by which they are expressed : and a 
due attention to the signs may, in many cases, give considerable light 
to the things signified by them. 

There are in all languages modes of speech, by which men signify 
their judgment, or give their testimony 3 by which they accept or 
refuse 3 by which they ask information or advice 3 by which they 
command, or threaten, or supplicate ; by which they plight their faith 
in promises or contracts. If such operations were not common to 
mankind, we should not find in all languages forms of speech, by which 
they are expressed. 

AH languages, indeed, have their imperfections — they can never be 
adequate to all the varieties of human thought 3 and therefore things 
may be really distinct in their nature, and capable of being distin- 
guished by the human mind, which are not distinguished in common 
language. We can only expect, in the structure of languages, those 
distinctions which all mankind in the common business of life have 
occasion to make. 

There may be peculiarities in a particular language, of the causes of 
which we are ignorant, and from which, therefore, we can draw no 
conclusion. But whatever we find common to all languages, must 
have a common cause 3 must be owing to some common notion or 
sentiment of the human mind. 

We gave some examples of this before, and shall here add another. 
All languages have a plural number in many of their nouns 3 from 
which we may infer that all men have notions, not of individual 
things only, but of attributes, or things which are common to many 
individuals 3 for no individual can have a plural number. 

Another source of information in this subject, is a due attention to 
the course of human actions and conduct. The actions of men are 
etfects j their sentiments, their passions, and their affections are the 
causes of those effects 3 and we may, in many cases, form a judgment 
of the cause from the effect. The behaviour of parents towards their 
children gives sufficient evidence even to those who never had children, 
that the parental affection is common to mankind. It is easy to see. 



Mulock.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 277 

from the general conduct of men, what are the natural objects of their 
esteem, their admiration, their love, their approbation, their resent- 
ment, and of all their other original dispositions. It is obvious, from 
the conduct of men in all ages, that man is by his nature a social 
animal j that he dehghts to associate with his species 3 to converse, 
and to exchange good offices with them. 

Not only the actions, but even the opinions of men may sometimes 
give hght into the frame of the human mind. The opinions of men 
may be considered as the effects of their intellectual powers, as their 
actions are the effects of their active principles. Even the prejudices 
and errors of mankind, when they are general, must have some cause 
no less general ; the discovery of which will throw some light upon 
the frame of the human understanding. — Essays on the Intellectual 
and Active Powers of Man. Essay i. ch. v. 



114.— JOHN HALIFAX. 

[Miss Muloch, 1826. 
[Miss Dinah Maria Muloch, born at Stoke-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, in 1826, 
turned her attention to literature at an early age. Her first novel, "The Ogilvies," 
was published in 1849. It was followed by "Olive," which appeared in 1850, 
"John Halifax, Gentleman/' in 1856, and a variety of works, including poetry and 
books for children.] 

My "robin had done singing, and I amused myself with watching a 
spot of scarlet winding down the rural road, our house being on the 
verge where Norton Bury melted into ^'^ the country." It turned out 
to be the cloak of a well-to-do young farmer's wife riding to market 
in her cart beside her jolly looking spouse. Very spruce and self- 
satisfied she appeared, and the market-people turned to stare after her, 
for her costume was a novelty then. Doubtless, many thought as I 
did, how much prettier was scarlet than duffle grey. 

Behind the farmer's cart came another, which at first I scarcely 
noticed, being engrossed by the ruddy face under the red cloak. The 
farmer himself nodded good humouredly, but Mrs. Scarletcloak turned 
up her nose. " Oh, pride, pride !" I thought, amused, and watched 
the two carts, the second of which was with difficulty passing the 
farmer's, on the opposite side of the narrow road. At last it succeeded 
in getting in advance, to the young woman's evident annoyance, until 
the driver, turning, lifted his hat to her with such a merry, frank, 
pleasant smile. 

Surely, I knew that smile, and the well-set head with its light curly 



278 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Mulock. 

hair. Also, alas ! I knew the cart with relics of departed sheep 
dangling out behind. It was our cart of skins, and John Halifax was 
driving it. 

*^ John ! John !" I called out, but he did not hear, for his horse had 
taken fright at the red cloak, and required a steady hand. Very 
steady the boy's hand was, so that the farmer clapped his two great 
lists, and shouted ^^Bray-vo !" 

But John — my John Halifax — he sat in his cart and drove. His 
appearance was much as when I first saw him — shabbier, perhaps, as 
if through repeated drenchings^ this had been a wet autumn, Jael 
had told me. Poor John ! — well might he look gratefully up at the 
clear blue sky to-day ; ay, and the sky never looked down on a brighter, 
cheerier face — the same face, which, whatever rags it surmounted, 
would, I believe, have ennobled them all. 

I leaned out, watching him approach our house ; watching him with 
so great pleasure, that I forgot to wonder whether or no he would 
notice me. He did not at first, being busy over his horse ; until, just 
as the notion flashed across my mind, that he was passing by our 
house — also, how keenly his doing so would pain me — the lad 
looked up. 

A beaming smile of surprise and pleasure, a friendly nod, then all at 
once his manner changed ; he took off his cap, and bowed cere- 
moniously to his master's son. 

For the moment, I was hurt -, then I could not but respect the 
honest pride which thus intimated that he knew his own position, and 
wished neither to ignore nor to alter it ; all advances between us rfiust 
evidently come from my side. So, having made his salutation, he was 
driving on, when I called after him — 

"John! John!" 

*' Yes, sir. I am so glad you're better again." 

" Stop one minute till I come out to you." And I crawled on my 
crutches to the front door, forgetting everything but the pleasure of 
meeting him — forgetting even my terror of Jael. What could she 
say ? even though she held nominally the friends' doctrine — obeyed in 
the letter at least, " Call no man your master" — what would Jael say 
if she found me, Phineas Fletcher, talking in front of my father's 
respectable mansion with the vagabond lad who drove my father's cart 
of skins ? 

But I braved her, and opened the door. " John, where are you ?" 

"Here," (he stood at the foot of the steps, with the reins on his 
arm) j " did you want me ?" 

" Yes. Come up here j never mind the cart." 

But that was not John's way. He led the refractory horse, settled 



Mulock.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 279 

him comfortably under a tree, and gave him in charge to a small boy. 
Then he bounded back across the road, and was up the steps to my 
side in a single leap. 

. " I had no notion of seeing you. They said you were in bed 
yesterday." (Then he had been enquiring for me !) "Ought you to 
be standing at the door this cold day ^" 

"It is quite warm/' I Said, looking up at the sunshine and shivering. 

" Please go in." 

" If you'll come too." 

He nodded, then put his arm around mine, and helped me in, as if 
he had been a big elder brother, and I a little ailing child. Well 
nursed and carefully guarded as I had always been, it was the first 
time in my life I ever knew the meaning of that rare thing — tender- 
ness. A quality different from kindliness, affectionateness, or benevo- 
lence, a quality which can exist only in strong, deep, and undemonstra- 
tive natures, and therefore in its perfection is oftenest found in men. 
John Halifax had it more than any one, woman or man, that I ever 
knew. 

"I'm glad you're better," he said, and said no more. But one look 
of his expressed as much as half a dozen sympathetic sentences of 
other people. 

" And how have you been, John ? How do you like the tan-yard ? 
Tell me, frankly." 

He pulled a wry face, though comical withal, and said, cheerily — 
" Everybody must like what brings them their daily bread. It's a 
grand thing for me not to have been hungry for nearly thirty days." 

"Poor John!" I put my hand on his wrist — his strong, brawny 
wrist. Perhaps the contrast involuntarily struck us both with the 
truth — good for both to learn — that Heaven's ways are not so unequal 
as we sometimes fancy they seem. 

" I have so often wanted to see you, John. Couldn't you come in 
now ?" 

He shook his head, and pointed to the cart. That minute, through 
the open hall door, I perceived Jael sauntering leisurely home from 
market. 

Now, if I was a coward, it was not for myself this time. The 
avalanche of ill words I knew must fall — but it should not fall on him, 
if I could help it. 

"Jump up on your cart, John. Let me see how well you can 
drive. There — good bye, for the present. Are you going to the tan- 
yard ?" 

"Yes — for the rest of the day." And he made a face as if he did 
not quite revel in that delightful prospect. No wonder ! 



28o THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [D'Aubignc. 

*^ I'll come and see you there this afternoon," 

" No ?" with a look of delightful surprise. ^' But you must not — 
you ought not." 

" But I will!'" And I laughed to hear myself actually using that 
phrase. What would Jael have said ? 

What — as she arrived just in time to receive a half malicious, half 
ceremonious bow from John, as he drove -off — ^what that excellent 
woman did say, I have not the slightest recollection. I only 
remember that it did not frighten and grieve me as such attacks used 
to do 3 that, in her own vernacular, it all ^' went in at one ear, and 
out at t'other j" that I persisted in looking out until the last glimmer 
of tlie bright curls had disappeared down the sunshiny road — then 
shut the front door, and crept in, content. — John Halifax, Gentleman, 



115.— THE THESES OF LUTHER. 

[Merle D'Aubign^, 1794- 

[Jean Henri Merle D'Aubign:^, born at'Geneva, Aug. 16, 1794, was educated at the 
university of his native town and at Berlin, and became pastor of a French church in 
Hamburg. From 18 15 to 1830 he was chaplain to the late King of Holland at 
Brussels. In 1830 he was appointed Professor of Church History at the new college 
at Geneva. His first work was a volume of sermons published at Hamburg. The 
first volume of his " History of the Reformation in the Sixteenth Century " appeared 
in 1835, ^^d has been translated into most modern languages. D'Aubigne' has 
published numerous other works.] 

At length the year 1^17 arrived j Luther's theses were published} 
they were circulated through Christendom, and penetrated also into 
the monastery where the scholar of Annaberg was concealed. He 
hid himself in a corner of the cloister with another monk, John 
Voigt, that he might read them at his ease. Here were the selfsame 
truths he had heard from his father : his eyes were opened ; he felt a 
voice within him responding to that which was then re-echoing 
through Germany, and great consolation filled his heart. " I see 
plainly," said he, '' that Martin Luther is the reaper I saw in my 
dream, and who taught me to gather the ears." He began immediately 
to profess the doctrine that Luther had proclaimed. The monks grew 
alarmed as they heard him ; they argued with him, and declared 
against Luther, and against his convent. "This convent," replied 
Myconius, " is like our Lord's sepulchre : they wish to prevent Christ's 
resurrection, but they will fail." At last his superiors, finding they 
could not convince him, interdicted him for a year and a half from all 



lyAubigne.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 281 



intercourse with the world, permitting him neither to write nor receive 
letters, and threatening him with imprisonment for life. But the hour 
of his deliverance was at hand. Being afterwards nominated pastor 
of Zwickau, he was the first who declared against the papacy in the 
churches in Thuringia. "Then," said he, "was I enabled to labour 
with my venerable father Luther in the gospel-harvest." Jonas 
describes him as a man capable of doing everything he undertook. 

No doubt there were others besides to whose souls Luther's proposi- 
tions were a signal of life. They kindled a new flame in many cells, 
cottages, and palaces. While those who had entered the convents in 
quest of good cheer, an idle life, or respect and honours, says Mathesius, 
began to load the name of Luther with reproaches, the monks who 
lived in prayer, fasting, and mortification, returned thanks to God, as 
soon as they heard the cry of that eagle whom Huss had announced a 
century before. Even the common-people, who did not clearly under- 
stand the theological question, but who only knew that this man 
assailed the empire of the lazy and mendicant monks, welcomed him 
with bursts of acclamation. An immense sensation was produced in 
Germany by these daring propositions. Some of the reformer's con- 
temporaries, however, foresaw the serious consequences to which they 
might lead, and the numerous obstacles they would encounter. They 
expressed their fears aloud, and rejoiced with trembling. 

"I am much afraid," wrote the excellent canon of Augsburg, 
Bernard Adelmann, to his friend Pirckheimer, " that the worthy man 
must give way at last before the avarice and power of the partisans of 
indulgences. His representations have produced so little effect, that 
the Bishop of Augsburg, our primate and metropolitan, has just 
ordered, in the pope's name, fresh indulgences for St. Peter's at Rome. 
Let him haste to secure the aid of princes ; let him beware of tempting 
God ; for he must be void of common sense if he overlooks the 
imminent peril he incurs." Adelmann was delighted on hearing it 
rumoured that Henry VIIL had invited Luther to England. " In 
that country," thought the canon, "he will be able to teach the truth 
in peace." Many thus imagined that the doctrine of the Gospel 
required the support of the civil power. They knew not that it 
advances without this power, and is often trammelled and enfeebled 
by it. 

Albert Kranz, the famous historian, was at Hamburg on his death- 
bed, when Luther's theses were brought to him : " Thou art right. 

Brother Martin," said he 3 " but thou wilt not succeed Poor 

monk ! Go to thy cell and cry, ' Lord ! have mercy upon me !' " 

An aged priest of Hexter, in Westphalia, having received and read 
the theses in his parsonage, shook his head^ and said in Low German^ 



2g2 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [lyAubigne. 

*' Dear Brother Martin ! if you succeed in overthrowing this purgatory 
and all these paper dealers, you will be a fine fellow indeed !" 
Erbenius, who lived a century later, wrote the following doggerel under 
these words : — 

" What would the worthy parson say. 
If he were living at this day i" 

Not oniy did a great nunriber of Luther's friends entertain fears as 
to this proceeding, but many even expressed their disapprobation. 

The Bishop of Brandenburg, grieved at seeing so violent a quarrel 
break out in his diocese, would have desired to stifle it. He resolved 
to effect this by mildness. "In your theses on indulgences," said he 
to Luther, through the Abbot of Lenin, " I see nothing opposed to 
the Catholic truth ; I myself condemn these indiscreet proclamations j 
but for the love of peace and for regard to your bishop, discontinue 
writing upon this subject" Luther was confounded at being addressed 
with such humility by so great a dignitary. Led away by the first 
impulse of his heart, he replied with emotion: "I consent: I would 
rather obey than perform miracles, if that were possible." 

The elector beheld with regret the commencement of a combat 
that was justifiable, no doubt, but the results of which could not be 
foreseen. No prince was more desirous of maintaining the public 
peace than Frederick. Yet, what an immense conflagration might 
not be kindled by this spark ! What violent discord, what rending of 
nations might not this monkish quarrel produce ! The elector gave 
Luther frequent intimations of the uneasiness he felt. 

Even in his own order and in his own convent at Wittemberg, 
Luther met with disapprobation. The prior and sub-prior were terri- 
fied at the outcry made by Tetzel and his companions. They repaired 
trembling and alarmed to Brother Martin's cell, and said : " Pray do 
not bring disgrace upon our order ! The other orders, and especially 
the Dominicans, are already overjoyed to think that they will not be 
alone in their shame." Luther was moved at these words j but 
he «oon recovered and replied: "Dear fathers! if this work be 
not of God, it will come to naught ; but if it be, let it go forwards." 
The prior and sub-prior made no answer. "The work is still going 
forwards," added Luther, after recounting this anecdote, "and, God 
willing, it will go on better and better unto the end. Amen." — 
History of the Reformation in the Sixteenth Century, vol. i. book iii. 
oh. vi. 



Kitto.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 283 



116.— THE CLIMATE OF PALESTINE. 

[Dr. Kitto, 1814— 1854. 

[John Kitto, the son of humble parents, was born at Plymouth, Dec, 4, 1804, 
and part of his childhood was passed in a workhouse, where he learned the trade of a 
shoemaker. Through the kindness of a Mr. Grove, of Exeter, he was enabled to 
indulge his literary tastes, and his first work, " Essays and Letters," appeared in 
1825. Having studied at the Missionary- College at Islington, in May, 1829, he 
accompanied Mr. Grove on a tour in the East, returning to England in 1833. He 
laboured zealously at literature. His "Pictorial Bible" appeared in 1835, ^^ 
"Pictorial History of Palestine" in 1839 — A^' ^^'^ "Journal of Sacred Literature," 
1848 — ^2. He wrote other works, and in 1844 the University- of Giessen con- 
ferred upon him the doctor^s degree. He died at Cannstadt, in "Wurtemberg, 
whither he had repaired for the benefit of his health, Nov. 25, 1854. His Life by 
Dr. J. E. Ryland, appeared in 1856, and another by Professor Eadie in 1858.] 

The climate of Palestine naturally varies in different situations. In 
the valleys and plains it is very warm, but upon the mountains cool 3 
but on the average temperate. The climate differs from the tempe- 
rate parts of Europe more by the changes of wet and dry seasons than 
by the temperature itself. The medium warmth for Jerusalem is, 
according to Schubert, 64° Fahrenheit. In summer, however, it is 
about 84° or 86°, though the heat may occasionally rise even to 104°. 
The heat is greater in the plains and valleys of the Jordan and about 
the Dead Sea, where an almost tropical climate prevails. On the 
longest day the sun rises just before five, and sets just before seven 
o'clock j the shortest day continaes from a little after seven until a 
little before five 3 therefore the greatest length of day is about four- 
teen hours and twelve minutes, and the shortest nine hours and forty- 
eight minutes. As in the Bible, equally for summer and winter, 
twelve hours a day are reckoned from the rising to the setting of the 
sun, and also twelve for the night, the length of the hour necessarily 
varied in summer and winter. There are properly but two seasons in 
Palestine ; the cold and the warm, or rather the rainy and the d^}^ 
The rainy season comes on not suddenly but by degrees. The rain 
comes mostly from the west or west-north-west, and lasts two or three 
days successively, falling particularly during the night. The wind 
then turns to the east, and many days of fine weather foUow. After 
this first autumn rain the husbandmen sow the winter seed, particu- 
larly barley. Later on in the season the rain is less heavy, and occurs 
at longer intervals, but during no part of the winter does it entirely 
cease. Snow often falls in Januar)- and Februar}% but seldom lies 
longer than a day at most. Hail also occurs during this time 3 the 
ground is, however, never frozen, and ice is verv' rare. 

The cold attains its greatest height in December and Januar}'j 



284 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Kitta 

towards the end of February the weather is very fine ; in March mor" 
or less rain still falls, but seldom after this time. The whole season 
from October to March may be regarded as one continued rainy 
season, occasionally broken by intervals of fine weather. By " the 
early and the latter rains " of the Bible are properly meant but the 
first autumnal and the latter spring rains. The suitableness of those 
designations arises from the fact that the autumnal rains in October 
agree with the beginning of the old Jewish year. Throughout the 
winter the roads of Palestine are dirty, uneven, and slippery^ but 
when the rain ceases, the foulness soon passes off, and the roads 
become hard, but never even. 

During the months of April and May the sky is generally serene, 
the air soft and balmy, and the aspect of nature in years of the cus- 
tomary rain, green and refreshing to the eye. It is the fine season 
of which is said in Solomon's Song ii. ii — 13, ^' Now the winter is 
" past, the rain is over, and the flowers appear on the earth ; the time 
" of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle-dove is 
''heard in our land. The fig-tree putteth forth her new figs, the 
"vines with the tender grape give a good smell." 

Showers of rain do indeed still occur, but they are mild and re- 
freshing. In ordinary seasons, from the cessation of the spring showers 
till October and November, no rain falls throughout the year, and the 
sky is mostly clear. The nights are generally cool, often with heavy 
dew. 

From June to August the heat is continually increasing, sometimes 
insupportably so. Its influence and the total want of rain soon 
destroys the fresh green of the fields, and invests the whole country 
with an aspect of sterility and barrenness -, all that is left of green is 
found in the foliage of the dispersed fruit-trees, and in the vineyards 
and millet-fields. In September the nights begin to wax cold, and 
the heat of the day decreases, after having dried and burnt up as it 
were the whole country ; the cisterns are nearly dry -, the few streams 
and brooks are exhausted 3 and inanimate as well as animate nature 
revives and exults in the return of rain. Mists and clouds begin now 
to show themselves 3 and showers fall at intervals until October, when 
the true rainy season of the year commences its periodical return. 
Thunder-storms are very rare in summer, but are frequent and heavy 
in the season of rain. — Scripture Lands, described in a Series of 
Historical, Geographical and Topographical Sketches. — Canaan — 
Climate and Seasons. 



Jesse.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 285 



117.— SAGACITY OF THE POODLE. 

[Jesse, 1780— 1868. 

[Edward Jesse, born at Hutton, Cranswick, Yorkshire, in January, 1780, and 
educated privately, entered the public service at an early age, and was private secretary 
to Lord Dartmouth, when President of the Board of Control. Mr. Jesse having 
held various appointments, was made a Commissioner of Hackney Carriages in 1812, 
and retired on a pension in 1830. He is the author of several popular works, 
amongst which "Anecdotes of Dogs," published in 1846, and "Favourite Haunts 
and Studies" in 1847, '^^X ^^ mentioned. Mr. Jesse died in 1868.J 

A SHOE-BLACK Oil the Pont Neuf at Paris, had a poodle dog, whose 
sagacity brought no small profit to his master. If the dog saw a 
person with well-polished boots go across the bridge, he contrived to 
dirty them, by having first rolled himself in the mud of the Seine. 
His master was then employed to clean them. An English gentleman, 
who had sufi'ered more than once from the annoyance of having his 
boots dirtied by a dog, was at last induced to watch his proceedings, 
and thus detected the tricks he was playing for his master's benefit. 
He was so much pleased with the animal's sagacity, that he purchased 
him at a high price and conveyed him to London. On arriving there, 
he was confined to the house till he appeared perfectly satisfied with his 
new master and his new situation. He at last, however, contrived to 
escape, and made his way back to Paris, where he rejoined his old 
master, and resumed his former occupation. I was at Paris some 
years ago, where this anecdote was related to me, and it is now pub- 
lished in the records of the French Institute. 

Nor is this a solitary instance of the extraordinary sagacity of the 
poodle. A lady of my acquaintance had one for many years, who 
was her constant companion both in the house and in her walks. 
When, however, either from business or indisposition, her mistress did 
not take her usual walk on Wimbledon Common, the dog, by jumping 
on a table took down the maid servant's bonnet, and held it in her 
mouth tiU she accompanied the animal to the Common. 

A friend of mine had a poodle dog, who was not very obedient to 
his call when he was taken out to run in the fields. A small whip 
was therefore purchased, and the dog one day was chastised with it. 
The whip was placed on a table in the hall of the house, and the next 
morning it could not be found. It was soon afterwards discovered in 
the coal cellar. The dog was a second time punished with it, and 
again the whip was missed. It was afterwards discovered that the dog 
had attempted to hide the instrument by which pain had been inflicted 
on him. There certainly appears a strong approach to reason in this 
proceeding of the dog. Cause and effect seem to have been associated 
in his mind, if his mode of proceeding may be called an effort of it. 



286 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pollok. 



The following anecdotes prove the strong affection and perseverance 
of the poodle. The late Duke of Argyll had a favourite dog of this 
description^ who was his constant companion. This dog, on the occa- 
sion of one of the Duke's journeys to Inverary Castle, was, by some 
accident or mistake, left behind in London. On missing his master, 
the faithful animal set off in search of him, and made his way into 
Scotland, and was found early one morning at the gate of the castle. 

- The anecdote is related by the family, and a picture shown of the 
dog. 

A poor German artist who was studying at Rome, had a poodle dog, 
who used to accompany him, when his funds would allow it, to an 
ordinary frequented by other students. Here the dog got scraps 
enough to support him. His master, not being able to support the 
expense, discontinued his visits to the ordinary. His dog fared badly 
in consequence, and at last his master returned to his friends in 
Germany, leaving his dog behind him. The poor animal slept at the 
top of the stairs leading to his master's room, but watched in the day 
time at the door of the ordinary, and when he saw his former 
acquaintances crowding in, he followed at their heels, and thus gained 
admittance, and was fed till his owner came back to resume his 
studies. — Anecdotes of Dogs : The Poodle, 



1 18.— SLOTH AND ACTIVITY. 

[Pollok, 1799 — 1827. 

[Robert Pollok, born at Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, in 1799, and educated at Glasgow, 
was licensed as a preacher in 1826. He wrote some stories, published under the 
title of "Tales of the Covenanters," and his " Course of Time," an epic poem in 
ten books, appeared in March, 1827. The author fell a victim to consumption, and 
died at Southampton, on his way to Italy, Sept. 15, 1827, just six months after the 
publication of his poem. His Life, by his brother, was published in 1843.] 

Two principles from the beginning strove 

In human nature — still dividing man — 

Sloth and activity ; the lust of praise. 

And indolence that rather wished to sleep. 

And not unfrequently in the same mind 

They dubious contest held ; one gaining now, / 

And now the other crowned, and both again 

Keeping the field, with equal combat fought. 

Much different was their voice. Ambition called 



To action : sloth invited to 



repose. 



Pollok.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 287 

Ambition early rose, and, being up. 

Toiled ardently, and late retired to rest j 

Sloth lay till midday, turning on his couch. 

Like ponderous door upon its weary hinge. 

And having rolled him out, with much ado. 

And many a dismal sigh and vain attempt. 

He sauntered out, accoutred carelessly — 

With half-oped, misty, unobservant eye. 

Somniferous, that weighed the object down 

On which its burden fell — an hour or two. 

Then with a groan retired to rest again. 

The one, whatever deed had been achieved. 

Thought it too little, and too small the praise ; 

The other tried to think — for thinking so 

Answered his purpose best — that what of great 

Mankind could do had been already done ; 

And therefore laid him calmly down to sleep. 

Diiferent in mode, destructive both alike. 

Destructive always indolence 3 and love 

Of fame destructive always too, if less 

Than praise of God it sought, content with less j 

Even then not current, if it sought his praise 

From other motive than resistless love : 

Though base, mainspring of action in the world j 

And under name of vanity and pride. 

Was greatly practised on by cunning men. 

It oped the niggard's purse, clothed nakedness. 

Gave beggars food, and threw the Pharisee 

Upon his knees, and kept him long in act 

Of prayer 3 it spread the lace upon the fop. 

His language trimmed, and planned his curious gaitj 

It stuck the feather on the gay coquette. 

And on her finger laid the heavy load 

Of jewellery. It did — what did it not? — 

The gospel preached, the gospel paid, and sent 

I'he gospel ; conquered nations ; cities built j 

Measured the furrow of the field with nice 

Directed share -, shaped bulls, and cows, and rams j 

And threw the ponderous stone ; and pitiful. 

Indeed, and much against the grain, it dragged 

The stagnant, dull, predestinated fool. 

Through learning's halls, and made him labour much 

Abortively, though sometimes not unpraised 



288 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK, [Fuller. 

He left the sage's chair, and home returned. 

Making his simple mother think that she 

Had borne a man. In schools, designed to root 

Sin up, and plant the seeds of holiness 

In youthful minds, it held a signal place. 

The little infant man, by nature proud. 

Was taught the Scriptures by the love of praise. 

And grew religious as he grew in fame. 

And thus the principle, which out of heaven 

The devil threw, and threw him down to heU, 

And keeps him there, was made an instrument 

To moralize and sanctify mankind. 

And in their hearts beget humility : 

With what success it needs not now to say. 

Course of Time, Book vi. 



119.— THE FAITHFUL MINISTER. 

[Rev. T. Fuller, 1608 — 1661. 

[Thomas Fuller, born at St. Peter's, Aldwinckle, in Northamptonshire, of which his 
father was rector, in June, 1608, was educated at Queen's College, Cambridge. He 
was made fellow of Sidney College, prebendary of Salisbury, and rector of 
St. Benet's, Cambridge, in 1631. His first work, a poem, entitled "David's Heinous 
Sin, Hearty Repentance, Heavy Punishment," appeared in 1631. His " History of the 
Holy War" was published at Cambridge in 1639. Fuller, who removed to London, 
and was lecturer at the Savoy, took part with the King in the Civil War, and having 
been appointed his chaplain, followed the royal army from place to place. In spite of 
his numerous avocations and the troubled state of the kingdom, he composed and 
published numerous works. His " Pisgah-Sight of Palestine " appeared in London 
in 1650, his " Church History of Britain, from the birth of Christ to 1648," at the 
same place in 1655. At the Restoration he resumed the lectureship of the Savoy, 
his prebendaryship at Salisbury, was chosen chaplain extraordinary to Charles II., and 
was created D.D. of Cambridge, by a mandamus dated Aug. 2, 1660. He died of a 
fever, known as the "new disease," Aug. 16, 1661. His "History of the Worthies 
of England" was published after his death, in one vol. fol., in 1662. Fuller wrote 
numerous other works. A life, by an anonymous author, appeared in 1661 ; and 
" Memorials of his Life and Works," by the Rev. A. T. Russell, in 1844. Coleridge 
says of him: — "Next to Shakespeare, I am not certain whether Thomas Fuller, 
beyond all other writers, does not excite in me the sense and emotion of the mar- 
vellous; the degree in which any given faculty, or combination of faculties, is 
possessed and manifested, so far surpassing what we would have thought possible in a 
single mind, as to give one's admiration the flavour and quality of wonder. Fuller 
was incomparably the most sensible, the least prejudiced great man of au age that 
boasted of a galaxy of great men. In all his numerous volumes, on so many 
diflerent subjects, it is scarcely too much to say, that you will hardly find a page in 
which some one sentence out of every three does not deserve to be quoted for itself as 
a motto or as a maxim."] 



Fuller.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 289 

1. He endeavours to get the general love and good-will of his parish. 
This he doth not so much to make a benefit of them as for them, that 
his ministry may be more effectual ; otherwise he may preach his own 
heart out, before he preacheth anything into theirs. The good conceit 
of the physician is half a cure, and his practice will scarce be happy 
where his person is hated ; yet he humours them not in his doctrine 
to get their love : for such a spaniel is worse than a dumb dog. He 
shall sooner get their goodwill by walking uprightly, than by crouching 
and creeping. If pious living and painful labouring in his calling will 
not win their affections, he counts it gain to lose them. As for those 
who causelessly hate him, he pities and prays for them : and such there 
will be. I should suspect his preaching had no salt in it, if no galled 
horse did wince. 

2. He is strict in ordering his conversation. As for those who cleanse 
blurs with blotted fingers, they make it the worse. It was said of one 
who preached very well, and lived very ill. That when he was out oj 
the pulpitj it was a pity he should ever go into it, and when he was in 
the pulpit, it was a pity he should ever come out of it : but our minister 
lives sermons. And yet I deny not but dissolute men, like unskilful 
horsemen who open a gate on the wrong side, may by the virtue of their 
office open heaven for others, and shut themselves out. * * * 

6. He will not offer to God of that which costs him nothing, but takes 
pains aforehandfor his sermons. Demosthenes never made any oration 
on the sudden ; yea, being called upon he never rose up to speak, except 
he had well studied the matter : and he was wont to say. That he showed 
how he honoured and reverenced the people of Athens, because he was 
careful what he spake unto them. Indeed if our minister be surprised 
with a sudden occasion, he counts himself rather to be excused than 
-commended, if, premeditating only the bones of his sermons, he clothes 
it with flesh extempore. As for those whose long custom hath made 
preaching their nature, that they can discourse sermons without study, 
he accounts their examples rather to be admired than imitated. 

7. Having brought his sermon into his head, he labours to bring it 
into his heart, before he preaches it to his people. Surely that preaching 
which comes from the soul most works on the soul. Some have ques- 
tioned ventriloquy when men strangely speak out of their bellies, 
whether it can be done lawfully or no : might I coin the word 
cordiloguy, when men draw the doctrines out of their hearts, sure all 
would count this lawful and commendable. •x- * -x- 

n. His similes and illustrations are always familiar, never contemp- 
tible. Indeed, reasons are the pillars of the fabric of a sermon, but 
similitudes are the windows which give the best lights. He avoids 
such stories whose mention may suggest bad thoughts to the auditors, 

u 



290 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [FuUer. 

and will not use a light comparison to make thereof a grave applica- 
tion, for fear lest his poison go farther than his antidote. 

12. He provideth not only wholesome lut plentiful food for his people. 
Almost incredible was the painfidness of Baronius, the compiler of the 
voluminous Annals of the Church, who for thirty years together 
preached three or four times a week to the people. As for our 
minister, he preferreth rather to entertain his people with wholesome 
cold meat which was on the table before, than that which is hot from 
the spit, raw and half roasted. Yet in repetition of the same sermon, 
every edition hath a new addition, if not of new matter, of new affec- 
tions. Of whom., saith St. Paul, we have told you often, and now we 
tell you weeping. 

13. He makes not that wearisome, which should ever le welcome. 
Wherefore his sermons are of an ordinary length except on an extra- 
ordinary occasion. What a gift had John Halsebach, professor at 
Vienna, in tediousness, who being to expound the prophet Isaiah to 
his auditors, read twenty-one years on the first chapter, and yet finished 
knot. ^ * * 

19. He is careful in the discreet ordering of his own family. A good 
minister and a good father may well agree together. When a certain 
Frenchman came to visit Melancthon, he found him in his stove with 
one hand dandling his child in the swaddling-clouts, and in the other 
hand holding a book and reading it. Our minister also is as hospitable 
as his estate will permit, and makes ever}^ alms two by his cheerful 
giving it. He loveth also to live in a well-repaired house, that he may 
serve God therein more cheerfully. A clergyman who built his house 
from the ground, wrote in it this counsel to his successor — 

"If thou dost find an house built to thy mind 
Without thy cost. 

Serve thou the more God and the poor ; 
My labour is not lost." 

20. Lying on his death-bed he bequeaths to each of his parishioners his 
precepts and example for a legacy : and they in requital erect every 
one a monument for him in their hearts. He is so far from that base 
jealousy that his memory should be outshined by a brighter successor, 
and from that wicked desire that his people may find his worth by the 
worthlessness of him that succeeds, that he doth heartily pray to God 
to provide them a better pastor after his decease. As for outward 
estate, he commonly lives in too bare pasture to die fat. It is well if 
he hath gathered any flesh, being more in blessing than bulk. — Holy 
and Profane State, Book ii. ch. 9. 



Lamb.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 291 

120.— THE POOR RELATION. 

[Charles Lamb, 1775 — 1834. 

[Charles Lamb, bom in the Temple, Feb. 18, 1775, and educated at Christ's Hospital, 
became a clerk in the India Office in 1792, from which he retired with a pension in 
1825. He lived in intimacy with Coleridge and Wordsworth, and published some 
poems jointly with the first mentioned. His first work, " John Woodvil," a drama, 
appeared in 180 1. He is best known by the " Essays of Elia," published in thf 
"London Magazine," and reprinted in 1823. The "Tales from Shakespeare," partly 
written by his sister, appeared in 1807, and "Specimens of English Dramatic Poets 
who lived about the time of Shakespeare" in 1808. Lamb died in London Dec. 27, 
1834. His Works, with a sketch of his Life, by Mr. Justice Talfourd, appeared in 
1838, and " Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, comprising his unpublished Letters, 
with Sketches of his Contemporaries," by Mr. Justice Talfourd, in 1848.] 

A Poor Relation is the most irrelevant thing in nature, — a piece of 
impertinent correspondencj^ — an odious approximation, — a haunting 
conscience, — a preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noon-tide of 
our prosperity", — an unwelcome remembrancer, — a perpetuallj recurring 
mortification, — a drain on your purse, — a more intolerable dun upon 
your pride, — a drawback upon success, — a rebuke to your rising, — a 
stain in your blood, — -a blot on your 'scutcheon, — a rent in your gar- 
ment, — a death's-head at your banquet, — Agathocles' pot, — a Mordecai 
in your gate, — a Lazarus at your door, — a lion in your path, — a frog in 
your chamber, — a fly in your ointment, — a mote in your eye, — a 
triumph to your enemy, — an apology to your friends, — the one thing 
not needful,— the hail in han^est, — the ounce of sour in a pound of 
sweet. 

He is known by his knock. Your heart telleth you " That is 

Mr. ." A rap, between familiarity and respect j that demands, 

and at the same time seems to despair of, entertainment. He entereth 
smiling and — embarrassed. He holdeth out his hand to you to shake, 
and — draweth it back again. He casually looketh in aboQt dinner- 
time, when — the table is full. He oifereth to go away, seeing you 
have company — but is induced to stay. He filleth a chair, and your 
visitor's two children are accommodated at a side-table. He never 
cometh upon open days, when your wife says, with some complacency, 

"My dear, perhaps Mr. will drop in to-day." He remembereth 

birth-days — and professeth he is fortunate to have stumbled upon one. 
He declareth against fish, the tarbot being small — yet sulfereth himself 
to be importuned into a slice, against his first resolution. He sticketh 
by the port — }'et will be prevailed upon to empty the remainder glass 
of claret, if a stranger press it upon him. He is a puzzle to the 
ser\'ants, who are fearful of being too obsequious, or not civil enough, 
to him. The guests think " they have seen him before." Every one 

u a 



292 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lamb. 

speculateth upon his condition ; and the most part take him to be — a 
tide-waiter. He calleth you by your Christian name, to imply that 
his other is the same with your own. He is too famiHar by half, yet 
you wish he had less diffidence. With half the familiarity, he might 
pass for a casual dependent j with more boldness, he would be in 
no danger of being taken for what he is. He is too humble for a 
friend ; yet taketh on him more state than befits a client. He is a 
worse guest than a country tenant, inasmuch as he bringeth up no 
rent — yet 'tis odds, from his garb and demeanour, that your guests take 
him for one. He is asked to make one at the whist-table ^ refaseth on 
the score of poverty, and — resents being left out. When the company 
break up, he proffereth to go for a coach — and lets the servant go. 
He recollects your grandfather ; and will thrust in some mean and 
quite unimportant anecdote — of the family. He knew it when it was 
not quite so flourishing as " he is blest in seeing it now." He reviveth 
past situations, to institute what he calleth — favourable comparisons. 
With a reflecting sort of congratulation, he will inquire the price of 
your furniture ; and insults you with a special commendation of your 
window-curtains. He is of opinion that the urn is the more elegant 
shape, but, after all, there was something more comfortable about the 
old tea-kettle — which you must remember. He dare say you must find a 
great convenience in having a carriage of your own, and appealeth to 
your lady if it is not so. Inquireth if yon have had your arms done 
on vellum yet ^ and did not know, till lately, that such-and-such had 
been the crest of the family. His memory is unseasonable j his com- 
pliments perverse j his talk a trouble j his stay pertinacious ; and when 
he goeth away, you dismiss his chair into a corner, as precipitately as 
possible, and feel fairly rid of two nuisances. 

There is a worse evil under the sun — and that is — a female Poor 
Relation. You may do something with the other j you may pass him 
oflT tolerably well ; but your indigent she-relative is hopeless. " He 
is an old humourist," you may say, " and affects to go threadbare. His 
circumstances are better than folks would take them to be. You are 
fond of having a character at your table, and truly he is one." But in 
the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman 
dresses below herself from caprice. The truth must out without 

shuflfling. " She is plainly related to the L 's ; or what does she 

at their house ?" She is, in all probability, your wife's cousin. Nine 
times out of ten, at least, this is the case. Her garb is something 
between a gentlewoman and a beggar, yet the former evidently pre- 
dominates. She is most provokingly humble, and ostentatiously 
sensible to her inferiority. He may require to be repressed sometimes 
— ailquando sujjlaminandus erat — but there is no raising her. You end 



I 



Lamb.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 293 

her soup at dinner, and she begs to be helped — after th» gentlemen. 

Mr. requests the honour of taking wine with her ; she hesitates 

between Port and Madeira, and chooses the former — because he does. 
She calls the servant Sir ; and insists on not troubling him to hold her 
plate. The housekeeper patronises her. The children's governess 
takes upon her to correct her, when she has mistaken the piano for 
harpsichord. 

This theme of poor relationship is replete with so much matter for 
tragic as well as comic associations, that it is difficult to keep the 
account distinct without blending. The earliest impressions which I 
received on this matter, are certainly not attended with anything pain- 
ful, or very humiliating, in the recalling. At my father's table (no 
splendid one) was to be found, every Saturday, the mysterious figure of 
an aged gentleman, clothed in neat black, of a sad yet comely appear- 
ance. His deportment was of the essence of gravity 3 his words few 
or none 3 and I was not to make a noise in his presence. I had little 
inclination to have done so — for my cue was to admire in silence. A 
particular elbow-chair was appropriated to him, which was in no case 
to be violated. A peculiar sort of sweet pudding, which appeared on 
no other occasion, distinguished the days of his coming. I used to 
think him a prodigiously rich man. All I could make out of him was, 
that he and my father had been schoolfellows, a world ago, at Lincoln, 
and that he came from the Mint. The Mint I knew to be a place 
where all the money was coined — and I thought he was the owner of 
all that money. Awful ideas of the Tower twined themselves about his 
presence. He seemed above human infirmities and passions. A sort 
of melancholy grandeur invested him. From some inexplicable doom 
I fancied him obliged to go about in an eternal suit of mourning ; a 
captive — a stately being led out of the Tower on Saturdays. Often 
have I wondered at the temerity of my father, who, in spite of an 
habitual general respect which we all in common manifested towards 
him, would venture now and then to stand up against him in some 
argument, touching their youthful days. The houses of the ancient 
city of Lincoln are divided (as most of my readers know) between the 
dwellers on the hill and in the valley. This marked distinction formed 
an obvious division between the boys who lived above (however 
brought together in a common school) and the boys whose parental 
residence was on the plain 3 a sufficient cause of hostility in the code 
of these young Grotiuses. My father had been a leading Mountaineer ; 
and would still maintain the general superiority, in skill and hardihood, 
of the Above Boys (his own faction) over the Below Boys (so they 
were called), of which party his contemporary had been a chieftain 



294 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Wilson. 

Many and hot were the skirmishes on this topic — the only one upon 
which the old gentleman was ever brought out — and bad blood bred j 
even sometimes almost to the recommencement (so I expected) of 
actual hostilities. But my father, who scorned to insist upon advan- 
tages, generally contrived to turn the conversation upon some adroit 
by-commendation of the old Minster ; in the general preference of 
which, before all other cathedrals in the island, the dweller on the hill, 
and the plain-born, could meet on a conciliating level, and lay down 
their less important differences. Once only I saw the old gentleman 
really ruffled, and I remembered with anguish the thought that came 
over me: 'Terhaps he will never come here again." He had been 
pressed to take another plate of the viand, which I have already men- 
tioned as the indispensable concomitant of his visits. He had refused 
with a resistance amounting to rigour, when my aunt, an old Lincolnian, 
who had something of this, in common with my cousin Bridget, that 
she would sometimes press civility out of season— uttered the following 
memorable application — " Do take another slice, Mr. Billet, for you 
do not get pudding every day." The old gentleman said nothing at 
the time — but he took occasion in the course of the evening, when 
some argument had interv^ened between them, to utter with an emphasis 
which chilled the company, and which chills me now as I write it — 
"Woman, you are superannuated !" John Billet did not survive long 
after the digesting of this affront ; but he survived long enough to 
assure me that peace was actually restored ! and, if I remember aright, 
another pudding v/as discreetly substituted in the place of that which 
had occasioned the offence. He died at the Mint (Anno 178 1), 
where he had long held, what he accounted, a comfortable indepen- 
dence ; and with five pounds, fourteen shillings and a penny, which 
were found in his escrutoire after his decease, left the world, blessing 
God that he had enough to bury him, and that he had never been 
obliged to any man for a sixpence. This was — a Poor Relation. — 
Last Essays of ELia. 



121.— THE SNOW STORM. 

[Professor Wilson, 1785 — 1854. 

[John Wilson, born at Paisley, May 18, 178.1;, educated at the universities of Glasgow 
and Oxford, took up his residence about 1808, at Windermere, where he lived in 
companionship with Southey and Wordsworth. His " Isle of Palms, and other 
Poems," appeared in 181 2. He was called to the Scottish bar in 18 15, and published 
his second poem, "The City of the Plague, and other Poems," in 1816. "Black- 
wood's Magazine," to which he contributed largely under the nom de plume of 
Christopher North, was established in 1817. He was appointed Professor of Moral 



Wilson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 295 

Philosophy at the university of Edinburgh in 1820. His principal prose works are 
" Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," published in 1822 ; " The Trials of Mar- 
garet Lindsay" in 1823 ; and "The Foresters" in 1825. A pension of 300/. per 
annum was settled upon him in 185 1 ; he resigned his professorship in 1852, and 
died at Edinburgh April 2, 1854. His works, including the "Noctes Ambrosianae," 
written for "Blackwood's Magazine," edited by Professor Ferrier, appeared in 1855- 
58, and a "Life," by Mrs. Gordon, m 1862.] 

Little Hannah Lee had left her master's house, soon as the rim of 
the great moon was seen by her eyes, that had been long anxiously 
watching it from the window, rising, like a joyful dream, over the 
gloomy mountain-tops ; and all by herself she tripped along beneath 
the beauty of the silent heaven. Still as she kept ascending and 
descending the knolls that lay in the bosom of the glen, she sang to 
herself a song, a hymn, or a psalm, without the accompaniment of 
the streams, now all silent in the frost 5 and ever and anon she stopped 
to try to count the stars that lay in some more beautiful part of the 
sky, or gazed on the constellations that she knew, and called them, in 
her joy, by the names they bore among the shepherds. There were 
none to hear her voice, or see her smiles, but the ear and eye of Provi- 
dence. As on she glided, and took her looks from heaven, she saw her 
own little fireside — her parents waiting for her arrival — the bible 
opened for worship — her OM^n little room kept so neatly for her, with 
its mirror hanging by the window, in which to braid her hair by the 
morning light — her bed prepared for her by her mother's hand — the 
primroses in her garden peeping through the snow — old Tray, who 
ever welcomed her with his dim white eyes — the pony and the cow j 
— friends all, and inmates of that happy household. So stepped she 
along, while the snow diamonds glittered around her feet, and the 
frost wove a wreath of lucid pearls round her forehead. 

She had now reached the edge of the Black-moss, which lay half- 
way between her master's and her father's dwelling, when she heard a 
loud noise coming down Glen-Scrae, and in a few seconds she felt on 
her face some flakes of snow. She looked up the glen, and saw the 
snow-storm coming down fast as a flood. She felt no fears 3 but she 
ceased her song, and, had there been a human eye to look upon it 
there, it might have seen a shadow upon her face. She continued her 
course, and felt bolder and bolder every step that brought her nearer to 
her parents' house. But the snow-storm had now reached the Biack- 
moss, and the broad line of light that had lain in the direction of her 
home was soon swallowed up, and the child was in utter darkness. She 
saw nothing but the flakes of snow, interminably intermingled, and 
furiously wafted in the air, close to her head 5 she heard nothing but 
one wild, fierce, fitful howl. The cold became intense, and her little 
feet and hands were fast being benumbed into insensibility. 



296 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Wilson. 

" It is a fearful change," muttered the child to herself j but still she 
did not fear, for she had been born in a moorland cottage, and lived 
all her days among the hardships of the hills. " What will become of 
the poor sheep !" thought she, — but still she scarcely thought of her 
own danger, for innocence, and youth, and joy, are slow to think of 
aught evil befalling themselves, and, thinking benignly of all living 
things, forget their own fear in their pity for others' sorrow. At last, 
she could no longer discern a single mark on the snow, either of 
human steps, or of the sheep-track, or the foot-print of a wild-fowl. 
Suddenly, too, she felt out of breath and exhausted — and, shedding 
tears for herself at last, sank down in the snow. 

It was now that her heart began to quake with fear. She remem- 
bered stories of shepherds lost in the snow — of a mother and a child 
frozen to death on that very moor — and in a moment, she knew that 
she was to die. Bitterly did the poor child weep ; for death was 
terrible to her, who, though poor, enjoyed the bright little world of 
youth and innocence. The skies of heaven were dearer than she 
knew to her, so were the flowers of earth. She had been happy at 
her work, happy in her sleep — happy in the kirk on Sabbath. A 
thousand thoughts had the solitary child — and in her own heart was a 
spring of happiness, pure and undisturbed as any fount that sparkles 
unseen all the year through, in some quiet nook among the pastoral 
hills. But now there was to be an end of all this — she was to be 
frozen to death, and lie there till the thaw might come ; and then her 
father would find her body, and carry it away to be buried in the 
kirkyard. 

The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as shed— and scarcely 
had her little hands strength to clasp themselves together, as the thought 
of an overruling and merciful Lord came across her heart. Then, in- 
deed, the fears of this religious child were calmed, and she heard with- 
out terror the plover's wailing cry, and the deep boom of the bittern 
sounding in the moss. *' I will repeat the Lord's Prayer 3" and, draw- 
ing her plaid more closely around her, she whispered, beneath its 
ineffectual cover — " Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy 
name — Thy kingdom come — Thy will be done on earth as it is in 
Heaven." Had human aid been within fifty yards, it could have been 
of no avail — eye could not see her — ear could not hear her in that 
howling darkness. But that low prayer was heard in the centre of 
eternity — and that little sinless child was lying in the snow, beneath 
the all-seeing eye of God. 

The maiden, having prayed to her Father in Heaven — then thought 
of her father on earth. Alas ! they were not far separated ! The 
father was lying but a short distance from his child 3 he too had sunk 



Smiles.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 297 

down in the drifting snow, after having, in less than an hour, exhausted 
all the strength of fear, pity, hope, despair, and resignation, that could 
rise in a father's heart blindly seeking to rescue his only child from 
death, thinking that one desperate exertion might enable them to 
perish in each other's arms. There they lay, within a stone's throw of 
each other, while a huge snow-drift was ever}^ moment piling itself up 
into a more insurmountable barrier between the dying parent and his 
dying child. — The Snow Storm. — A Short Story. 



122.— OLD INVENTIONS REVIVED. 

[Smiles, 1816. 

[Samdel Smiles, born at Haddington in i8i6, and educated for the medical profes- 
sion, practised as a surgeon at Leeds, and became editor of the Leeds Times. 
He was appointed Secretary- to the Leeds and Thirsk Raihvay in 1845, ^^^ t:o the 
London and South Eastern in 1852. In addition to contributions to the 
" Quarterly Re\aew," and other periodicals, Mr. Smiles is the author of several 
works, the best known being "The Life of George Stephenson," published in 1857 ; 
" Self-Help," in 1859 > " Lives of the Engineers," in 3 vols. 8vo, in 1861-2, and 
" Industrial Biograph/' in 1863.] 

Steam-locomotiox, by sea and land, had long been dreamt of and 
attempted. Blasco de Garay made his experiment in the harbour of 
Barcelona as early as 1543 ; Denis Papin made a similar attempt at 
Cassel in 1707 5 but it was not until Watt had solved the problem of 
the steam-engine that the idea of the steam-boat could be developed 
in practice, which was done by Miller of Dalswinton in 1788. Sages 
and poets have frequently foreshadowed inventions of great social 
moment. Thus Dr. Darwin's anticipation of the locomotive, in his 
Botanic Garden, ^uhlishedim 1 791, before any locomotive had been 
invented, might almost be regarded as prophetic : — 

Soon shall thy arm, unconquered Steam ! afar 
Drag the slow barge, and drive the rapid car. 

Denis Papin first threw out the idea of atmospheric locomotion 3 
and Gauthey, another FrcDchman, in 1782 projected a method of con- 
veying parcels and merchandise by subterranean tubes, after the 
method recently patented and brought into operation by the London 
Pneumatic Despatch Company. The balloon was an ancient Italian 
invention, revived by Mongolfier long after the original had been 
forgotten. Even the reaping-machine is an old invention revived. 
Thus Barnabe Googe, the translator of a book from the German en- 
titled '' The whole Arte and Trade of Husbandrie," published in 
1377, in the reign of Elizabetli, speaks of the reaping-machine as a 



298 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Smiles. 

worn-out invention — a thing " which was woont to be used in France. 
The device was a lowe kinde of carre with a couple of wheeles, and 
the frunt armed with sharp syckles, whiche forced by the beaste 
through the corne, did cut down al before it. This tricke/' says 
Googe, " might be used in level! and champion countreys ; but with 
us it wolde make but iJl-favoured woorke." The Thames Tunnel was 
thought an entirely new manifestation of engineering genius 3 but the 
tunnel under the Euphrates at ancient Babylon, and that under the 
wide mouth of the harbour at Marseilles (a much more difficult work), 
show that the ancients were beforehand with us in the art of tunnel- 
ling. Macadamized roads are as old as the Roman empire j and sus- 
pension bridges, though comparatively new in Europe, have been 
known in China for centuries. 

There is every reason to believe — indeed it seems clear — that the 
Romans knew of gunpowder, though they only used it for purposes 
of fireworks ; while the secret of the destructive Greek fire has been 
lost altogether. When gunpowder came to be used for purposes of 
war, invention busied itself upon instruments of destruction. When 
recently examining the Museum of the Arsenal at Venice, we were 
surprised to find numerous weapons of the fifteenth and sixteenth cen- 
turies embodying the most recent Enghsh improvements in arms, such 
as revolving pistols, rifled muskets, and breech-loading cannon. The 
latter, embodying Sir William Armstrong's modern idea, though in a 
rude form, had been fished up from the bottom of the Adriatic, where 
the ship armed with them had been sunk hundreds of years ago. 
Even Perkins's steam-gun was an old invention revived by Leonardo 
da Vinci, and by him attributed to Archimedes. The Congreve 
rocket is said to have an Eastern origin. Sir William Congreve having 
observed its destructive effects when employed by the forces under 
Tippoo Saib in the Mahratta v/ar, on which he adopted and improved 
the missile, and brought out the invention as his own. 

Coal-gas was regularly used by the Chinese for lighting purposes 
long before it was known amongst us. Hydropathy was generally 
practised by the Romans, who established baths wherever they went. 
Even chloroform is no new thing. The use of ether as an anaesthetic 
was known to Albertus Magnus, who flourished in the thirteenth cen- 
tury 5 and in his works he gives a recipe for its preparation. In 1681 
Denis Papin published his Traite des Operatiojis sans Douleur, showing 
that he had discovered methods of deadening pain. But the use of 
anaesthetics is much older than Albertus Magnus or Papin 5 for the 
ancients had their nepenthe and mandragora j the Chinese their mayo, 
and the Egyptians their hachisch (both preparations of Cannabis 
Indica), the eflects of which in a great measure resemble those of 



Smiles.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 299 

chloroform. What is perhaps still more surprising is the circumstance 
that one of the most elegant of recent inventions, that of sun-painting 
by the daguerreotype, was in the fifteenth century known to Leonardo 
da Vinci, whose skill as an architect and engraver, and whose accom- 
plishments as a chemist and natural philosopher, have been almost en- 
tirely overshadowed by his genius as a painter. The idea, thus early 
born, lay in oblivion until 1760, when the daguerreotype was again 
clearly indicated in a book published in Paris, written by a certain 
Tiphanie de la Roche, under the anagrammatic title of Giphantie. 
Still later, at the beginning of the present century, we find Josiah 
Wedgwood, Sir Humphry Davy, and James Watt, making experi- 
ments on the action of light upon nitrate of silver ; and only within 
the last few months a silvered copper-plate has been found amongst 
the old household lumber of Matthew Boulton (Watt's partner), 
having on it a representation of the old premises at Soho, apparently 
taken by some such process. 

In like manner the invention of the electric telegraph, supposed to 
be exclusively modern, was clearly indicated by Scherwenter in his 
Delassements Physico-Mathhnatiques, published in 16^6; and he 
there pointed out how two individuals could communicate with each 
other by means of the magnetic needle A century later, in 1746, 
Le Monnier exhibited a series of experiments in the Royal Gardens at 
Paris, showing how electricity could be transmitted through iron wire 
950 fathoms in lengthy and in 17^3 we find one Charles Marshall 
publishing a remarkable description of the electric telegraph in the 
Scots Magazine, under the title of " An expeditious Method of con- 
veying Intelligence." Again, in 1760, we find George Louis Lesage, 
professor of mathematics at Geneva, promulgating his invention of an 
electric telegraph, which he eventually completed and set to work in 
1774. This instrument was composed of twenty-four metallic wires, 
separate from each other and enclosed in a non-conducting substance. 
Each wire ended in a stalk mounted with a little ball of elder-wood 
suspended by a silk thread. When a stream of electricity, no matter 
how slight, was sent through the bar, the elder-ball at the opposite 
end was repelled, such movement designating some letter of the 
alphabet. A few years later we find Arthur Young, in his Travels in 
France, describing a similar machine invented by a M. Lomond of 
Paris, the action of which he also describes. In these and similar 
cases, though the idea was born and the model of the invention was 
actually made, it still waited the advent of the scientific mechanical 
inventor who should bring it to perfection, and embody it in a practical 
working form. — Industrial Biography, ch. x. 



300 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Lander. 



123.— AN AFRICAN KING. 

[Lander, 1804 — 1834. 
[Richard Lander, born in Cornwall in 1804, was by trade a printer. The Govern- 
ment, anxious to solve the mystery of the source of the Niger, formed an expedition, 
consisting of Clapperton, Capt. Pearce, Messrs. Dickson and Morrison. Richard 
Lander went as servant to Clapperton. The travellers left England in August, 1825 ; 
Clapperton and Richard Lander, their companions having died on the journey, 
reached Sakkatu, in the interior of Africa. Overcome with fatigue and vexation, 
Clapperton died at Changaery, near Sakkatu, April 13, 1827. Lander returned to 
England in 1830. He published " Records of Capt. Clapperton's Last Expedition to 
Africa." He was sent by the Government to make further researches in Africa, and 
returned to England in 1830; his "Journal of an Expedition to Explore the Course 
and Termination of the Niger" appeared in 1832 ; in which year he again left for 
Africa, and having penetrated to the Niger, received a wound in a skirmish with the 
natives, of which he died at Fernando Po, Jan. 27, 1834.] 

After crossing the river Formosa, which is about a mile in width, we 
arrived at Badagry at five o'clock in the afternoon, and were com- 
fortably accommodated in the dwelling of Mr. Houtson, who had pre- 
viously resided at that place. The house, like every other in the town, 
except the king's, is constructed of bamboo cane, and has but one 
story. On Friday, the 2nd of December, the king, Adolee, sent us a 
present of a bullock, a fine pig, and some fowls 5 and on the follow- 
ing day honoured us with a visit, in all the pomp and barbarous mag- 
nificence of African royalty. He was mounted on a diminutive black 
horse, and followed by about one hundred and fifty of his subjects, 
who danced and capered before and behind him ; whilst a number of 
musicians, performing on native instruments of the rudest description, 
promoted considerably the animation and vivacity of their motions and 
gestures. He was gorgeously arrayed in a scarlet cloak, literally 
covered with gold lace, and white kerseymere trowsers similarly em- 
broidered. His hat was turned up in front with rich bands of gold 
lace, and decorated with a splendid plume of white ostrich feathers, 
which, waving gracefully over his head, added not a little to the im- 
posing dignity of his appearance ! Close to the horse's head marched 
two boys, each carrying a musket in his right hand : they wore plain 
scarlet coats, with white collars and large cocked hats, tastefully trimmed 
with gold lace, which costly material all classes excessively admire. 
Two fighting chiefs accompanied their sovereign on foot, and familiarly 
chatted with him as he advanced. On approaching within a short 
distance of us, the monarch dismounted, and squatting himself on the 
ground outside our house, an umbrella was unfurled and held over his 
head, whilst a dozen of his wives stood round their lord and master 

*' With diverse-coloured fans, whose wind did seem 
To glow the deiicale cheeks which they did cool V* 



I 



Pepys.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 301 

for the atmosphere was sultry and the heat oppressive. After paying 
our respects to our august visitor, — to do him honour, I was desired to 
hoist an Enghsh union-jack over him. This was the climax of his 
glory and his pride ; he was sensibly delighted, and looked as child- 
ishly vain as a girl when she first puts on a new dress. All hands now 
began to drink rum, and the spectacle became highly and singularly 
grotesque. Laying aside all pretensions to superiority of rank, his 
Badagrian majesty forgot his illustrious birth, and was as cheerful and 
merry as the meanest and most jovial of his subjects. Seated on the 
ground, his splendid dress glittering in the rays of the sun, surrounded 
by his generals, pages, and wives, with a British flag held by a white 
floating over his princely head, — his soul softened by the most in- 
spiring and delicious music ; and his animal spirits exhilarated by large 
and repeated draughts of his favourite cordial, — he was in a transport 
of joy, and looked and spoke as if he had been the happiest man in the 
universe ; while the shouts and bustle of the people, the cracking of 
fingers and clapping of hands, the singing, and dancing, and capering, 
all was so novel, and so African, that it made an impression on my 
memory, which will never be erased from it. This debauch continued 
for a couple of hours 3 when all the rum being consumed, and Adolee 
becoming rather tipsy, his majesty begged me to favour him, before 
his departure, with a tune on my bugle horn, of which he had formed 
the most extravagant notions. To this modest request I cheerfully 
acceded, and played several English and Scotch airs, until I became so 
completely exhausted that my breath was entirely spent, the king not 
permitting me to drop the instrument till then. Owing either to the 
effects of the liquor Adolee had partaken of so freely, or to the sound 
of the music, &c., he was quite in ecstasy, and shook hands and 
thanked me at the close of every tune. The king then remounted, 
and the procession returned in the same order, and performed the 
same antics as when it came. Captain Clapperton and his associates 
accompanied the monarch to his palace j whilst I and my companions 
repaired to our peaceful habitation. — Records of Capt. Clapperton s Last 
Expedition to Africa, vol. i. ch. iii. 



124.— PEPYS AT THE ASSAY OFFICE. 

[Pepys, 1633— 1703. 

[Samuel Pepys, the son of a tailor, was born in London, Feb. 23, 1633, and educated 
at St. Paulas School and Magdalen College, Cambridge. He was appointed to a 
clerkship connected with the Exchequer in 1658, Clerk of the Acts of the Navy in 
June, 1660, and Secretary to the Admiralty in 1673. Having been committed to the 



303 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pepys. 

Tower, May 22, 1679, for a supposed hostility to the Protestant cause, he was 
released without trial, and, after accompanying Lord Dartmouth to Tangier, resumed 
his post at the Admiralty. Pepys was appointed President of the Royal Society. He 
died May 26, 1703. He left his books, MSS., &c., to Magdalen College, Cambridge. 
His diary, from 1659 — 1669, deciphered by the Rev. John Smith, from the original 
short-hand, edited by Richard Lord Braybrooke, appeared in 1825. Pepys was the 
author of " Memoirs relating to the State of the Royal Navy of England for ten years, 
determined December, 1688," published in 1690, and one or two smaller treatises. 
His " Life, Journals, and Correspondence, including a Narrative of his Voyage to 
Tangier, and Residence there," appeared in 1841.] 

May 19, 1663, with Sir John Minnes to the Tower j and by Mr. 
Shngsby and Mr. Howard, Comptroller of the Mint, we were shown 
the method of making this new money. That being done, the Comp- 
troller would have us dine with him and his company, the King 
giving them a dinner every day. And very merry and good discourse 
upon the business we have been upon, and after dinner went to the 
Assay Office, and there saw the manner of assaying of gold and silver, 
and how silver melted down with gold do part, [upon] just being put 
into aqua-fortis, the silver turning into water, and the gold lying 
whole, in the very form it was put in, mixed of gold and silver, which 
is a miracle 3 and to see no silver at all, but turned into water, which 
they can bring again into itself out of the water : and at table they 
told us of two cheats, the best I ever heard. One of a labourer dis- 
covered to convey away bits of silver cut out for pence by swallowing 
them, and so they could not find him out, though, of course, they 
searched all the labourers : but, having reason to doubt him, they did, 
by threats and promises, get him to confess, and did find 7/. of it in 
his house at one time. The other, of one that got a way of coyning 
as good and passable, and large as the true money is, and yet saved 
fifty per cent, to himself, which was by getting moulds made to stamp 
groats like old groats, which is done so well, and I did beg two of 
them, which I keep for rarities, that there is not better in the world, 
and is as good and better than those that commonly go, which was the 
only thing that they could find out to doubt them by, besides the 
number that the party do go to put off, and then, coming to the 
Comptroller of the Mint, he could not, I say, find out any other thing 
to raise any doubt upon, but only their being so truly round or near it. 
He was neither hanged nor burned j the thing was thought so ingenious, 
and being the first time they could ever trap him in it, and so little 
hurt to any man in it, the money being as good as commonly goes. 
They now coin between 16 and 24,000 pounds in a week. At dinner 
they did discourse very finely to us of the probability that there is a 
vast deal of money hid in the land, from this : that in King Charles's 
time there was near ten millions of money coined, besides what was 



Browning.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 303 

then in being of King James's and Queen Elizabeth's, of which there 
is a good deal at this day in being. Next, that there was but 750,000/. 
coyned of the Harp and Crosse money,* and of this there was 
400,000/. brought in upon its being called in. And from very good 
arguments they find that there cannot be less of it in Ireland and 
Scotland than 100,000/. ; so that there is but 150,000/. missing 3 and 
of that, suppose that there should be not above 50,000/. still remaining, 
either melted down, hid, or lost, or hoarded up in England, there will 
then be but 100,000/. left to be thought to have been transported. 
Now, if 750,000/. in twelve years' time lost but a 100,000/. in danger 
of being transported, then 10,000,000/. in thirty-five years' time will 
have lost but 3,888,880/. and odd pounds; and, as there is 650,000/. 
remaining after twelve years' time in England, so, after thirty-five 
years' time, which was within this two years, there ought in proportion 
to have been resting 6,^111,120/. or thereabouts, besides King James 
and Queen Elizabeth's money. Now, that most of this must be hid 
is evident, as they reckon, because of the dearth of money immediately 
upon the calling-in of the State's money, which was 500,000/. that come 
in ; and then there was not any money to be had in this City, which 
they say to their own observation and knowledge was so. And, therefore, 
though I can say nothing in it myself, I do not dispute it. — Diary of 
Samuel Pepys. 1663. 



125.— THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 

[Browning, 1812. 

[Robert Browning, born at Camberwell in 181 2, was educated at the University of 
London. His first acknowledged work, " Paracelsus," was published in 1836. His 
tragedy, "Strafford," appeared in 1837, and was brought upon the stage, Macready 
playing the chief character. Browning has written numerous dramas and poems, 
the best known being " Pippa Passes," published in 1841 ; " Bells and Pomegra- 
nates" in 1842; and " Men and Women" in 1855. In 1852, Browning married 
Elizabeth Barrett, the poetess, who died at Florence, June 29, 1861.] 

Morning, evening, noon, and night, 
"Praise God," sang Theocrite. 

Then to his poor trade he turned 
By which the daily meal was earned. 



* This was the money coined by the Commonwealth, having on one side a shield 
bearing the cross of St. George, and on the other a shield, bearing a harp. — Hawkins's 
English Coins, p. 208. 



304 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Browning. 

Hard he laboured, long and well ; 
O'er the work his boy's curls fell 5 

But ever, at each period. 

He stopped and sang, ''Praise God:" 

Then back again his curls he threw. 
And cheerful turned to work anew. 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, " Well done 5 
" I doubt not thou art heard, my son : 

" As well as if thy voice to-day 

*' Were praising God the Pope's great way. 

" This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome 
"Praises God from Peter's dome." 

Said Theocrite " Would God that I 

" Might praise him, that great way, and die !'* 

Night passed, day shone. 
And Theocrite was gone. 

With God a day endures alway, 
A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in Heaven, " Nor day nor night 
Now brings the voice of my delight." 

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth. 
Spread his wings and sank to earth. 

Entered in flesh, the empty cell. 

Lived there, and played the craftsman well : 

And morning, evening, noon, and night. 
Praised God in place of Theocrite. 

And from a boy, to youth he grew 5 
The Man put off the Stripling's hue: 

The man matured and fell away 
Into the season of decay : 

And ever o'er the trade he bent 
And ever lived on earth content. 



Browning.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 305 

God said, " A praise is in mine ear 3 
" There is no doubt in it, no fear : 

** So sing old worlds, and so 

" New worlds that from my footstool go. 

" Clearer loves sound other ways 
"I miss my little human praise." 

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell 
The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 

'Twas Easter Day : he flew to Rome, 
And paused above Saint Peter's dome. 

In the tiring-room close by 
The great outer gallery. 

With his holy vestments dight. 
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite : 

And all his past career 
Came back upon him clear. 

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade 
Till on his life the sickness weighed : 

And in his cell when death drew near 
An angel in a dream brought cheer : 

And rising from the sickness drear 
He grew a priest, and now stood here. 

To the East with praise he turned 
And on his sight the angel burned. 

" I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, 
" And set thee here ; I did not well. 

" Vainly I left my angel's sphere, 

*' Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

" Thy voice's praise seemed weak j it dropped — • 
" Creation's chorus stopped ! 

" Go back and praise again 

" The early way — while I remain. 

X 



3o6 TEE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Blair. 

" With that weak voice of our disdain, 
" Take up Creation's pausing strain. 

" Back to the cell and poor employ : 
" Become the craftsman and the boy !" 

Theocrite grew old at home j 

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's Dome. 

One vanished as the other died : 
They sought God side by side. 

Bells and Pomegranates, No. vii. : Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, 



126.— GENTLENESS. 

[Dr. H. Blair, 17 18 — 1799. 

[Hugh Blair, born at Edinburgh, April 7, 1718, was educated at the university of his 
native city, and entered the church. From 1762 to 1783 he was Professor of Rhetoric 
and Belles Lettres in the University. His sermons, in five volumes, appeared 1777- 
1801, and his lectures in 1783. He died Dec. 27, 1799. A life by Dr. James 
Finlayson appeared in 1801.] 

[ BEGIN with distinguishing true gentleness from passive tameness of 
spirit, and from unlimited compliance with the manners of others. 
That passive tameness, which submits without struggle to every en- 
croachment of the violent and assuming, forms no part of Christian 
duty 3 but, on the contrary, is destructive of general happiness and 
order. That unlimited complaisance, which, on every occasion, falls 
in with the opinions and manners of others, is so far from being a 
virtue, that it is itself a vice, and the parent of many vices. It over- 
throws all steadiness of principle ; and produces that sinful conformity 
with the world which taints the whole character. In the present cor- 
rupted state of human manners, always to assent and to comply is the 
very worst maxim we can adopt. It is impossible to support the 
purity and dignity of Christian morals, without opposing the world on 
various occasions, even though we should stand alone. That gentle- 
ness, therefore, which belongs to virtue, is to be carefully distinguished 
from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of sycophants. 
It renounces no just right from fear. It gives up no important truth 
from flattery. It is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it 
necessarily requires a manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to 
give it any real value. Upon this solid ground only, the polish of 
gentleness can with advantage be superinduced. 



Blair.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 307 

It stands opposed, not to the most determined regard for virtue and 
truth, but to harshness and severity, to pride and arrogance, to violence 
and oppression. It is, properly, that part of the great virtue of charity 
which makes us unwilling to give pain to any of our brethren. Com- 
passion prompts us to relieve their wants. Forbearance prevents us 
from retaliating their injuries. Meekness restrains our angry passions -, 
candour, our severe judgments. Gentleness corrects whatever is offen- 
sive in our manners ; and, by a constant train of human attentions, 
studies to alleviate the burden of common misery. Its office, therefore, 
is extensive. It is not, like some other virtues, called forth only on 
peculiar emergencies 3 but it is continually in action, when we are 
engaged in intercourse with men. It ought to form our address^ to 
regulate our speech, and to diffuse itself over our whole behaviour. 

I must warn you, however, not to confound this gentle wisdom which 
is from above, with that artificial courtesy, that studied smoothness of 
manners, which is learned in the school of the world. Such accom- 
plishments, the most frivolous and empty may possess. Too often 
they are employed by the artful, as a snare ; too often affected by the 
hard and unfeeling, as a cover to the baseness of their minds. We 
cannot, at the same time, avoid observing the homage which even in 
such instances the world is constrained to pay to virtue. In order to 
render society agreeable, it is found necessary to assume somewhat, 
that may at least carry its appearance. Virtue is the universal charm. 
Even its shadow is courted, when the substance is wanting. The 
imitation of its form has been reduced into an art 5 and, in the commerce 
of life^ the first study of all who would either gain the esteem or win 
the heart of others, is to learn the speech, and to adopt the manners, of 
candour, gentleness, and humanity. But that gentleness which is the 
characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the 
heart: and let me add, nothing, except what flows from the heart, can 
render even external manners truly pleasing. For no assumed be- 
haviour can at all times hide the real character. In that unaffected 
civility which springs from a gentle mind, there is a charm infinitely 
more powerful than in all the studied manners of the most finished 
courtier. 

True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to Him wlio 
made us, and to the common nature of which we all share. It arises 
from reflexion on our own failings and wants 5 and from just views of 
the condition and the duty of man. It is native feeling, heightened 
and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily relents j which 
feels for everything that is human ; and is backward and slow to inflict 
the least wound. It is affable in its address, and mild in its demeanour 3 
ever ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged by others; breathing 

X 2 



3o8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Burke. 

habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long-suffering 
to enemies. It exercises authority with moderation j administers 
reproof with tenderness ; confers favour with ease and modesty. It is 
unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly 
about trifles ; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame ; but prompt 
to allay dissension, and to restore peace. It neither intermeddles un- 
necessarily with the affairs, nor pries inquisitively into the secrets, of 
others. It delights above all things to alleviate distress, and if it 
cannot dry up the falling tear, to soothe at least the grieving heart. 
Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome. 
It seeks to please, rather than to shine and dazzle ; and conceals with 
care that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which is oppressive 
to those who are beneath it. In a word, it is that spirit and that tenor 
of manners, which the Gospel of Christ enjoins, when it commands us 
to hear one another s burdens ; to rejoice with those who rejoice, and to 
weep with those who weep ; to please every one his neighbour for his 
good; to be kind and tender-hearted; to be pitiful and courteous; to 
support the weak, and to be patient towards all men. Sermons, No. vi. 
On Gentleness. James iii. ij. 



127.— THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 

[Burke, 1730— 1797. 

[Edmund Burke, born in Dublin, Jan. i, 1730, was educated at the university of his 
native city, and studied for the English bar, though he vsras never called. His first 
work, "Vindication of Natural Society," was published anonymously in 1756, and 
his essay, "A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and 
Beautiful," appeared the same year. He was appointed private secretary to Mr. W. G. 
Hamilton, Irish Secretary, in 1761, entered parliament in 1766, and having filled 
the office of Paymaster of the Forces, retired in 1794. He was instrumental in 
bringing Warren Hastings to trial for his Indian administration ; and the speech 
which he delivered on that occasion extended over four days. Burke wrote several 
treatises and pamphlets. The well-known " Reflections on the French Revolution" 
appeared in 1790. His last work was "Thoughts on a Regicide Peace." Burke 
died at Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire, July 9, 1797. A " Life," by Charles M. 
Cormick, appeared in 1797 ; by Dr. Bisset, in 1800; by Dr. Croly, in 1840; and 
by Jas. Napier, in 1862. Hallam (Lit. His. pt. iii. ch. 3, § 75) says: "Burke, per- 
haps, comes, of all modern writers, the nearest to him ;* but though Bacon may not 
be more profound than Burke, he is more copious and comprehensive." Sheridan 
spoke of him "as a gentleman whose abilities, happily for the glory of the age in 
which we live, are not entrusted to the perishable eloquence of the day, but will live 
to be the admiration of that hour, when all of us shall be mute, and most of us 
forgotten."] 



* Lord Bacon. 



Burke.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 309 

From Magna Charta to the Declaration of Right, it has been the 
uniform pohcy of our constitution to claim and assert our liberties, as 
an entailed inheritance derived to us from our forefathers, and to be 
transmitted to our posterity 3 as an estate specially belonging to the 
people of this kingdom, without any reference whatever to any other 
more general or prior right. By this means our constitution preserves 
an unity in so great a diversity of its parts. We have an inheritable 
crown 3 an inheritable peerage ; and a House of Commons and a 
people inheriting privileges, franchises, and liberties, from a long line 
of ancestors. 

The policy appears to me to be the result of profound reflexion j 
or rather the happy effect of following nature, which is wisdom with- 
out reflexion, and above it. A spirit of innovation is generally the 
result of a selfish temper, and confined views. People will not look 
forward to posterity, who never look backward to their ancestors. 
Besides the people of England well know, that the idea of inheritance 
furnishes a sure principle of conser\-ation, and a sure principle of 
transmission ; without at all excluding a principle of improve- 
ment. It leaves acquisition free 3 but it secures what it acquires. 
Whatever ad.vantages are obtained by a state proceeding on these 
maxims, are locked fast as in a sort of family settlement, grasped as in 
a kind of mortmain for ever. By a constitutional policy working 
after the pattern of nature, we receive, we hold, we transmit our 
government and our privileges, in the same manner in which we enjoy 
and transmit our property and our lives. The institutions of policy, 
the goods of fortune, the gifts of Providence, are handed down to us, 
and from us, in the same course and order. Our political system is 
placed in a just correspondence and symmetry with the order of the 
world, and with the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body 
composed of transitory parts 3 wherein, by the disposition of a stupen- 
dous wisdom, moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of 
the human race, the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged, 
or young, but, in a position of unchangeable constancy, moves on 
through the varied tenor of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and pro- 
gression. Thus, by preserving the method of nature in the conduct 
of the state, in what we improve, we are never wholly new 3 in what 
we retain, we are never wholly obsolete. By adhering in this manner 
and on those principles to our forefathers, we are guided not by the 
superstition of antiquarians, but by the spirit of philosophic analogy. 
In this choice of inheritance we have given to our frame of polity the 
image of a relation in blood 3 binding up the constitution of our 
country with our dearest domestic ties 3 adopting our fundamental 
laws into the bosom of our family aftections j keeping inseparable. 



3IO THE EJ'^RY.DAY BOOK [Thackeray. 

and cherishing willi the warmth of all their combined and mutually 
reflected charities, our state, our hearths, our sepulchres, and our altars. 
Through the same plan of a conformity to nature in our artificial 
institutions, and by calling in the aid of her unerring and powerful 
instincts, to fortify the fallible and feeble contrivances of our reason, 
we have derived several other, and those no small benefits, from con- 
sidering our liberties in the hght of an inheritance. Always acting as 
if in the presence of canonized forefathers, the spirit of freedom, 
leading in itself to misrule and excess, is tempered with an awful 
gravity. This idea of a liberal descent inspires us with a sense of 
habitual native dignity, which prevents that upstart insolence almost 
inevitably adhering to and disgracing those who are the first acquirers 
of any distinction. By this means our liberty becomes a noble 
freedom. It carries an imposing and majestic aspect. It has a pedigree, 
and illustrating ancestors. It has its bearings and ensigns armorial. 
It has its gallery of portraits ; its monumental inscriptions 3 its records, 
evidences, and titles. We procure reverence to our civil institutions on 
the principle upon which nature teaches us to revere individual men 5 
on account of their age, and on account of those from whom they are 
descended. All your sophisters cannot produce anything better adapted 
to preserve a rational and manly freedom, than the course that we have 
pursued, who have chosen our nature rather than our speculations, our 
breasts rather than our inventions, for the great conservatories and 
magazines of our rights and privileges. — Reflections on the Revolution 
in France. 



128.— THE KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE. 

[Thackeray, 181 i — 1863. 

[William Makepeace Thackeray, born at Calcutta in 1811, was educated at the 
Charter House and the university of Cambridge, though he did not take a degree. 
He studied as an artist at Rome, and wrote several sketches for " Eraser's Magazine," 
under the pseudonyme.s Michael Angelo Titmarsh, and George Fitz-Boodle, Esq, 
His " Paris Sketch-book" appeared in 1840, and the first number of the work which 
rendered him so popular, a serial, " Vanity Fair," appeared in 1846; " Pendennis" 
followed, in two vols. 8vo., in 1850; and "The Histor}^ of Henry Esmond, Esq.," 
in three vols. 8vo, in Nov. 1852. His " Lectures on the Humorists," first delivered at 
Willis's Rooms in 185 1, and on the "Four Georges," were afterwards published. 
For two years he edited the " Cornhill Magazine," of which the first number ap- 
peared in Jan. i860. Though called to the bar in 1848, Thackeray never practised. 
He retired in his usual health Dec. 23, 1863, and the following morning was found 
dead in his bed.] 

Colleges, schools, and inns of court, still have some respect for anti- 
quity, and maintain a great number of the customs and institutions of 
our ancestors, with which those persons who do not particularly regard 



Thackeray.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 311 

their forefathers, or perhaps are not very well acquainted with them, 
have long since done away. A well-ordained workhouse or prison is 
much better provided with the appliances of health, comfort, and 
cleanliness, than a respectable Foundation School, a venerable College, 
or a learned Inn. In the latter place of residence men are contented 
to sleep in dingy closets, and to pay for the sitting-room and the cup- 
board, which is their dormitory, the price of a good villa and garden in 
the suburbs, or of a roomy house in the neglected squares of the town. 
The poorest mechanic in Spitalfields has a cistern and an unbounded 
supply of water at his command j but the gentlemen of the inns of 
court, and the gentlemen of the universities, have their supply of this 
cosmetic fetched in jugs by laundresses and bedmakers, and live in 
abodes which were erected long before the custom of cleanliness and 
decency obtained among us. There are individuals still alive who 
sneer at the people and speak of them with ephithets of scorn. Gen- 
tlemen, there can be but little doubt that your ancestors were the Great 
Unwashed : and in the Temple especially, it is pretty certain, that, 
only under the greatest difficulties and restrictions, the virtue which has 
been pronounced to be next to godliness could have been practised at all. 

Old Grump, of the Norfolk Circuit, who had lived for more than 
thirty years in the chambers under those occupied by Warrington and 
Pendennis, and who used to be awakened by the roaring of the shower- 
baths which those gentlemen had erected in their apartments, — a part 
of the contents of which occasionally trickled through the roof into 
Mr. Grump's room, — declared that the practice was absurd, new- 
fangled, dandyfied folly, and daily cursed the laundress who slopped 
the staircase by which he had to pass. Grump, now much more than 
half a century old, had indeed never used the luxury in question. He 
had done without water very well, and so had our fathers before him. 
Of all those knights and baronets, lords and gentlemen, bearing arms, 
whose escutcheons are painted upon the walls of the famous hall of 
the Upper Temple, was there no philanthropist good-natured enough 
to devise a set of Hummums for the benefit of the lawyers, his fel- 
lows and successors ? The Temple historian makes no mention of 
such a scheme. There is Pump Court and Fountain Court, with 
their hydraulic apparatus, but one never heard of a bencher dis- 
porting in the fountain ; and can't but think how many a counsel 
learned in the law of old days might have benefited by the pump. 

Nevertheless, those venerable Inns which have the Lamb and Flag 
and the Winged Horse for their ensigns, have attractions for persons 
who inhabit them, and a share of rough comforts and freedom, 
which men always remember with pleasure. I don't know whether 
the student of law permits himself the refreshment of enthusiasm. 



312 THE EFERY-DAY- BOOK [Thackeray. 

or indulges in poetical reminiscences as he passes by historical 
chambers, and says, *' Yonder Eldon lived — upon this site Coke 
mused upon Lyttleton — here Chitty toiled — here Barnwell and Alder- 
son joined in their famous labours — here Byles composed his great 
work upon bills, and Smith compiled his immortal leading cases — 
here Gustavus still toils, with Solomon to aid him :" but the man 
of letters can't but love the place which has been inhabited by so 
many of his brethren, or peopled by their creations as real to us at 
this day as the authors whose children they were — and Sir Roger de 
Coverley walking in the Temple Garden, and discoursing with Mr. 
Spectator about the beauties in hoops and patches who are sauntering 
over the grass, is just as lively a figure to me as old Samuel Johnson 
rolling through the fog with the Scotch gentleman at his heels on their 
way to Dr. Goldsmith's chambers in Brick Court ; or Harry Fielding, 
with inked rufflles and a wet towel round his head, dashing off arti- 
cles at midnight for the Covent Garden Journal, while the printer's 
boy is asleep in the passage. 

If we could but get the history of a single day as it passed in 
any one of those four-storied houses in the dingy court where our 
friends Pen and Warrington dwelt, some Temple Asmodeus might 
furnish us with a queer volume. There may be a great parliamentary- 
counsel on the ground-floor, who drives up to Belgravia at dinner 
time, when his clerk, too, becomes a gentleman, and goes away to 
entertain his friends, and to take his pleasure. But a short time 
since he was hungry and briefless in some garret of the Tnn ; lived by 
stealthy literature ; hoped, and waited, and sickened, and no clients 
came ; exhausted his own means and his friends' kindness ; had to 
remonstrate humbly with duns, and to implore the patience of poor 
creditors. Ruin seemed to be staring him in the face, when, behold, 
a turn of the wheel of fortune, and the lucky wretch in possession of 
one of those prodigious prizes which are sometimes drawn in the great 
lottery of the Bar. Many a better lawyer than himself does not make 
a fifth part of the income of his clerk, who, a few months since, 
could scarcely get credit for blacking for his master's unpaid boots. On 
the first floor, perhaps, you will have a venerable man whose name is 
famous, who has lived for half a century in the Inn, whose brains are 
full of books, and whose shelves are stored with classical and legal 
lore. He has lived alone all these fifty years, alone and for him- 
self, amassing learning, and compiling a fortune. He comes home 
now at night only from the club, where he has been dining freely, 
to the lonely chambers where he lives a godless old recluse. When 
he dies, his Inn will erect a tablet to his honour, and his heirs burn a 
part of his library. Would you like to have such a prospect for 



Thackeray.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 313 

your old age, to store up learning and money, and end so ? But we 
must not linger too long by Mr. Doomsday's door. Worthy Mr. 
Grump lives over him, who is also an ancient inhabitant of the 
Inn, and who, when Doomsday comes home to read Catullus, is sitting 
down with three steady seniors of his standing, to a steady rubber at 
whist, after a dinner at which they have consumed their three 
steady bottles of Port. You may see the old boys asleep at the 
Temple Church of a Sunday. Attorneys seldom trouble them, and 
they have small fortunes of their own. On the other side of the 
third landing, where Pen and Warrington live, till long after midnight, 
sits Mr. Paley, who took the highest honours, and who is a fellow of 
his college, who will sit and read and note cases until two o'clock in 
the morning J who will rise at seven and be at the pleader's cham- 
bers as soon as they are open, where he will work until an hour 
before dinner-time ; who will come home from Hall and read and 
note cases again until dawn next day, when perhaps Mr. Arthur Pen- 
dennis and his friend Mr. Warrington are returning from some of 
their wild expeditions. How differently employed Mr. Paley has 
been ! He has not been throwing himself away : he has only 
been bringing a great intellect laboriously down to the comprehension 
of a mean subject, and in his fierce grasp of that, resolutely excluding 
from his mind all higher thoughts, all better things, all the wisdom of 
philosophers and historians, all the thoughts of poets 3 all wit, fancy, 
reflexion, art, love, truth altogether — so that he may master that 
enormous legend of the law, which he proposes to gain his livelihood 
by expounding. Warrington and Paley had been competitors for 
university honours in former days, and had run each other hard 3 and 
everybody said now that the former was wasting his time and 
energies, whilst all people praised Paley for his industry. There 
may be doubts, however, as to which was using his time best. The 
one could afford time to think, and the other never could. The 
one could have sympathies, and do kindnesses ; and the other must 
needs be always selfish. He could not cultivate a friendship or do a 
charity, or admire a work of genius, or kindle at the sight of beauty 
or the song of a sweet bird — he had no time, and no eyes for anything 
but his law-books. All was dark outside his reading-lamp. Love, and 
Nature, and Art (which is the expression of our praise and sense of 
the beautiful world of God), were shut out from him. And as he 
turned off his lonely lamp at night, he never thought but that he had 
spent the day profitably, and went to sleep alike thankless and re- 
morseless. But he shuddered when he met his old companion 
Warrington on the stairs, and shunned him as one that was doomed 
to perdition. — Pendennis, chap. xxix. 



314 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [More. 



129.— EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 

[Froude, 1818. 

[James Antony Froude, born at Dartington, Devonshire, April 23, 1818, was 
educated at Westminster and the university of Oxford, where he obtained the Chan- 
cellor's prize for the "English Essay" in 1842, and the same year was elected fellow 
of Exeter College. He contributed to the " Lives of the English Saints," and wrote 
"The Shadows of the Clouds," published in 1847 ; and " The Nemesis of Faith" in 
1848. He is best known by his "History of England," commencing at the Re- 
formation, of which vols. i. and ii. appeared in 1856; vols. iii. andiv. in 1858; vols. 
v. and vi. in i860; vols. vii. and viii. in 1863; and vol. ix. in 1870.] 

At daybreak More was awoke by the entrance of Sir Thomas Pope, 
who had come to confirm his anticipations, and to tell him it was the 
king's pleasure that he should suffer at nine o'clock that morning. 
He received the news with utter composure. " I am much bounden 
to the king," Le said, "for the benefits and honours he has bestowed 
on me ; and so help me God, most of all I am bounden to him that it 
pleaseth his Majesty to rid me so shortly out of the miseries of this 
present world." 

Pope told him the king desired that he would not " use many words 
on the scaffold." "Mr. Pope," he answered, "you do well to give me 
warning, for otherwise I had purposed somewhat to have spoken j but 
no matter wherewith his Grace should have cause to be offended. 
Howbeit, whatever I intended, I shall obey his Highness's command." 

He afterwards discussed the arrangements for the funeral, at which 
he begged that his family might be present ; and when all was settled. 
Pope rose to leave him. He was an old friend. He took More's 
hand and wrung it, and, quite overcome, burst into tears. 

"Quiet yourself, Mr. Pope," More said, "and be not discomfited, 
for I trust we shall once see each other full merrily, when we shall live 
and love together in eternal bliss." 

As soon as he was alone, he dressed in his most elaborate costume. 
It was for the benefit, he said, of the executioner who was to do him 
so great a service.'^ Sir William Kingston remonstrated, and with some 
diflficulty induced him to put on a plainer suit ; but that his intended 
liberality should not fail, he sent the man a gold angel in compensa- 
tion, " as a token that he maliced him nothing, but rather loved him 
extremely." 

So about nine of the clock he was brought by the Lieutenant out 
of the Tower 3 his beard being long, which fashion he had never before 
used, his face pale and lean, carrying in his hands a red cross, casting 
Ills eyes often towards heaven. He had been unpopular as a judge, and 



* The executioner received the clothes worn by the sufferer. 



More.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 315 

one or two persons in the crowd were insolent to him ; but the distance 
was short and soon over, as alJ else was nearly over now. 

The scaffold had been awkwardly erected, and shook as he placed 
his foot upon the ladder. "See me safe up," he said to Kingston. 
" For my coming down I can shift for myself." He began to speak 
to the people, but the sheriff begged him not to proceed, and he con- 
tented himself with asking for their prayers, and desiring them to bear 
witness for him that he died in the faith of the holy Catholic church, 
and a faithful servant of God and the king. He then repeated the 
Miserere psalm* on his knees 3 and when he had ended and had risen, 
the executioner, with an emotion which promised ill for the manner in 
which his part in the tragedy would be accomplished, begged his for- 
giveness. More kissed him. " Thou art to do me the greatest benefit 
that I can receive," he said. " Pluck up thy spirit, man, and be not 
afraid to do thine office. My neck is very short. Take heed there- 
fore that thou strike not awry for saving of thine honesty." The 
executioner offered to tie his eyes. " I will cover them myself," he 
said j and binding them in a cloth which he had brought with him, 
he knelt, and laid his head upon the block. The fatal stroke was 
about to fall, when he signed for a moment's delay while he moved 
aside his beard. "Pity that should be cut," he murmured, "that has 
not committed treason." With which strange words, the strangest 
perhaps ever uttered at such a time, the lips most famous through 
Europe for eloquence and wisdom closed for ever. 

"So," concludes his biographer, " with alacrity and spiritual joy he 
received the fatal axe, which no sooner had severed the head from the 
body, but his soul was carried by angels into everlasting glory, where a 
crown of martyrdom was placed upon him which can never fade nor 
decay 5 and then he found those words true which he had often spoken, 
that a man may lose his head and have no harm." 

This Avas the execution of Sir Thomas More, an act which sounded 
out into the far corners of the earth, and was the world's wonder as 
well for the circumstances under which it was perpetrated, as for the 
preternatural composure with which it was borne. Something of his 
calmness may have been due to his natural temperament, something to 
an unaffected weariness of a world which in his eyes was plunging into 
the ruin of the latter days. But those fair hues of sunny cheerfulness 
caught their colour from the simphcity of his faith 3 and never was 
there a Christian's victory over death more grandly evidenced than in 
that last scene lighted with its lambent humour. — History of England 
from the Fall of JVolsey to the Death of Elizabeth, vol. ii. ch. ix. 



* Psalm li. 



31 6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Cook. 



130.— "THE KING OF ALL THE FRIENDLY ISLES." 

[Capt. Cook, 1728 — 1779. 

[James Cook, born at Marton, in Yorkshire, Oct. 27, 1728, was apprenticed to a 
haberdasher, and afterwards went to sea. Having accepted the command of an 
expedition to the Pacific Ocean, he left Plymouth in the E?ideavour, Aug. 26, 1768, 
and after visiting Otaheite, New Zealand, and Australia, arrived in the Downs June 
12, 1 77 1. Captain Cook left Plymouth on his second voyage July 13, 1772, 
returning to England July 30, 1775. Soon after his return Captain Cook tendered 
his services to attempt the discovery of the North West Passage, and sailed from 
Plymouth in the Resolution, July 12, 1776. During the voyage he visited the 
Sandwich Islands, in one of which he was killed in a skirmish with the natives, 
Feb. 14, 1779. His account of the second voyage appeared in 1777, and the 
account of the third voyage, edited from Capt. Cook's papers, by Capt. James King, 
appeared in 1784. His Life, by Dr. Kippis, was published in 1788. Dibdin 
remarks : — " The spirit, disinterestedness, penetration, physical and intellectual 
energies of Captam James Cook fitted him in an especial manner for the various and 
extraordinary discoveries which he so successfully accomplished, and to which, alas ! 
he fell a victim and a sacrifice. Never were such labours closed by such a tragical 
catastrophe; and if the eulogies of the good and the wise of all countries be 
grateful to departed spirits, surely there is no spirit which can be soothed with purer 
attestations of worth, and higher acknowledgments of excellence, than that of this 
unparalleled and most unfortunate commander."] 

On the 6th (May, 1777,) we were visited by a great chief from Tonga- 
taboo, whose name was Feenou, and whom Taipa was pleased to intro- 
duce to us as King of all the Friendly Isles. I was now told, that, on my 
arrival, a canoe had been dispatched to Tongataboowith the newsj in con- 
sequence of which, this chief immediately passed over to Annamooka. 
The officer on shore informed me, that when he first arrived, all the 
natives were ordered out to meet him, and paid their obeisance by 
bowing their heads as low as his feet, the soles of which they also 
touched with each hand, hrst with the palm, and then with the back 
part. There could be little room to suspect that a person, received 
with so much respect, could be any thing less than the king. 

In the afternoon I went to pay this great man a visit, having first 
received a present of two fish from him, brought on board by one of 
his servants. * As soon as I landed, he came up to me. He appeared 
to be about thirty years of age, tall, but thin, and had more of the 
European features than any I had yet seen here. When the first 
salutation was over, I asked if he was the king. For, notwithstanding 
what I had been told, finding he was not the man whom I remembered 
to have seen under that character during my former voyage, I began 
to entertain doubts. Taipa officiously answered for him, and 
enumerated no less than one hundred and fifty-three islands, of which, 
he said, Feenou was the sovereign. After a short stay, our new visitor, 
and five or six of his attendants, accompanied me on board. I gave 



Cook.] OF MODERN LlTERATUkE. 3 17 

suitable presents to them all, and entertained them in such a manner, 
as I thought would be most agreeable. 

In the evening, I attended them on shore in my boat, into which 
the chief ordered three hogs to be put, as a return for the presents he 
had received from me. I was now informed of an accident which 
had happened, the relation of which will convey some idea of the 
extent of the authority exercised here over the common people. 
While Feenou was on board my ship, an inferior chief, for what reason 
our people on shore did not know, ordered all the natives to retire 
from the post we occupied. Some of them having ventured to return, 
he took up a large stick, and beat them most unmercifully. He struck 
one man, on the side of his face, with so much violence, that the 
blood gushed out of his mouth and nostrils j and, after lying some 
time motionless, he was at last removed from the place in convul- 
sions. The person who had inflicted the blow, being told that he had 
killed the man, only laughed at it 3 and it was evident that he was 
not in the least sorry for what had happened. We heard, afterwards, 
that the poor sufferer had recovered. 

The Discovery having found again her small bower anchor, shifted 
her berth on the 7th 5 but not before her best bower cable had shared 
the fate of the other. This day, I had the company of Feenou at 
dinner J and also the next day, when he was attended by Taipa, 
Toobou, and some other chiefs. It was remarkable, that none but Taipa 
was allowed to sit at table with him, or even to eat in his presence. 

I own that I considered Feenou as a very convenient guest, on 
account of this etiquette. For, before his arrival, I had generally a 
larger company than I could well find room for, and my table overflowed 
with crowds of both sexes. For it is not the custom at the Friendly 
Islands, as it is at Otaheite, to deny to their females the privilege of eating 
in company with the men. — A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean, vol. i. ch. iv. 



131.— FORTITUDE IN ADVERSITY. 

[R. Greene, 1550 — 1592. 

[Robert Greene, born at Norwich, in 1550, was educated at Cambridge, and after 
taking his degree visited Spain, Italy, and other parts of the Continent. He is said 
to have entered the church, and to have been one of the Queen's chaplains in 1576. 
His first work in prose, entitled " Mamillia, or the Triumph of Pallas, a Mirror or 
Looking Glass for' the Ladies of England," appeared in 1583. "Arcadia, or 
Menaphon," was first published in 1587. These were followed by numerous works 
in prose and verse. His " Groat's Worth of Wit," containing the well-known 
allusion to Shakespeare, appeared in 1592. Greene wrote several dramatic pieces, 
none of which were published until after his death, which occurred Sept. 3, 1592. 
** The History of Orlando Furioso," " A Looking Glass for London and England/* 



5i8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Greene. 

and " The Honorable Histon,- of Friar Bacon and Friar Buns:ay," his three best 
know-n dnmias, though often acted during; his lifetime, were first published in 1594. 
His Life, by the Rev. A. Dyce, is prefixed to an edition of his works published in 
183 1. Hailam remarks (Lit. Hist... part ii. ch. 6) : " Greene succeeds pretty well in 
that florid and £:ay style, a little redundant in images, which Shakespeare frequently 
gives to his princes and courtiers, and which renders some unimpassioned scenes in 
his historic pla}^ eftective and brilliant. There is great talent sho-wTi, though upon 
a vejy strange canvas, in Greene's * Looking Glass for London and England.' "] 

Sephestia, thou seest no physic prevails against the gaze of the 
basilisk, no charm against the sting of the tarantula, no prevention to 
divert the decree of the Fates, nor no means to recall back the baleful 
hurt of Fortune. Incurable sores are without Avicen's* aphorisms, 
and therefore no salve for them but patience. Then, my Sephestia, 
sithf thy fall is high and fortune lo\v, thy sorrows great and thy hope 
little, seeing me partaker of thy miseries, set all upon this, solamen 
Tuiseris socios habuisse dohvis, " it is a consolation to the wretched to 
have companions in their sorrow." Chance is like Janus, double- 
faced, as well full of smiles to comfort as of frowns to dismay j tlie 
ocean at the deadest ebb returns to a full tide ; when the eagle means 
to soar highest, he raiseth his flight in the lowest dales : so fareth it 
with Fortune, who in her highest extremes is most inconstant j wher 
the tempest of her \sTath is most fearful, then look for a calm ; when 
she beats thee A^ith nettles, then think she will strew thee A^ith roses ; 
when she is most familiar with furies, her intent is to be most prodigal, 
Sephestia. Thus are the arrows of Fortune feathered with the 
plumes of the bird halcyon, that changeth colour with the moon, 
^^•hich, towever she slioots them, pierce not so deep but they may be 
cured. But, Sephestia, thou art daughter to a king, exiled by him 
from the hope of a crown ; banished from the pleasures of the court 
to the painful fortunes of the country; parted for love from him thou 
canst not but lovej from Maximus,:}: Sephestia, who for thee hath 
sutfered so many disfavours as either discontent or death can aftbrd. 
What of all this ; is not Hope the daughter of Time ? Have not 
stars tiieir favourable aspects, as they have froward opposition ? Is 
tliere not a Jupiter as there is a Saturn ? Cannot tlie influence of 
smiling Venus stretch as far as the frowning constitution of Mars ? I 
tell thee, Sephestia, Juno foldeth in her brows the volumes of the 
destinies ; whom melancholy Saturn deposeth from a crown, she 



* Avicenna, whose real name was Abu Ali Al-Hossein Abdalhih Ibu Sina, an 
Arabian philosopher and physician, \N-as born at Charmatain, near Bokhara, in 98^ 
and died on a journey to Hamadan in 1037. 

t Since. 
i This person is the husband of Sephestia. 



Wordsworth.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 319 

mildly advanceth to a diadem ; then fear not, for if the mother live in 
misery, yet hath she a sceptre for the son : let the unkindness of thy 
father be buried in the cinders of obedience, and the want of Maximus 
be supplied with the presence of his pretty babe, who, being too young 
for Fortune, lies smihng on thy knee, and laughs at Fortune. Learn 
by him, Sephestia, to use patience, which is like the balm in the 
Vale of Jehosaphat, that findeth no wound so deep but it cureth : 
thou seest already Fortune begins to change her view, for after the 
great storm that pent our ship, we found a calm that brought us safe 
to shore ; the mercy of Neptune was more than the envy of ^olus, 
and the discourtesy of thy father is proportioned with the favour of the 
gods. Thus, Sephestia, being copartner of thy misery, yet do I seek 
to allay thy martyrdom 3 being sick to myself, yet do I play the 
physician to thee, wishing thou mayst bear thy sorrows with as much 
content as I brook my misfortunes with patience. — Arcadia^ or 
Menaphon. 



132.— THE SHADES OF NIGHT. 

[Wordsworth, 1770 — 1850. 
[William Wordsworth, born at Cockermouth April 7, 1770, was educated at Cam- 
bridge. During some continental tours he imbibed republican principles. His first 
publication, " Descriptive Sketches during a Pedestrian Tour on the Italian, Swiss, 
and Savoyard Alps," appeared in 1793; "An Evening Walk, an epistle in verse, 
addressed to a Young Lady," was published the same year. In June, 1797, he 
formed an acquaintance with Coleridge, and the " Lyrical Ballads," their joint pro- 
duction, appeared in 1798. Wordsworth removed to Rydal Mount in 1813, and the 
same year obtained the appointment of distributor of stamps for Westmoreland. 
"The Excursion" appeared in 1814, and "The Prelude, or Growth of the Poet's 
Mind, an Autobiographical Poem," in 1850. He received the degree of D.C.L. 
from the university of Oxford in 1839, resigned his appointment as Distributor of 
Stamps in 1842, receiving a pension of ^^300 per annum, and succeeded Southey as 
Poet Laureate in 1843. Wordsworth, who died at Rydal Mount, April 23, 1850, 
was one of the most distinguished of the Lake Poets, ridiculed by Lord Byron,* 



* Next comes the dull disciple of the school. 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
Who warns his friend * to shake off toil and trouble;, 
* And quit his books for fear of growing double.'f 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane; 



t Lyrical Ballads. The Tables Turned. 



320 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Wordsworth. 

the " Edinburgh Review," and writers of that period. His " Life," by Dr. Words- 
worth, Archdeacon of Westminster, appeared in 185 1. Several biographies have 
been published. " Wordsworth, a biography," by E. Paxton Hood, appeared in 1856.] 

Now, with religious awe, the farewell light 

Blends with the solemn colouring of the night j 

'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow. 

And round the west's proud lodge their colours throw. 

Like Una shining on her gloomy way. 

The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray ; 

Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small. 

Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall ; 

Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale. 

Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. 

With restless interchange at once the bright 

Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. 

No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze 

On lovelier spectacle in fairy days ; 

When gentle spirits urged a sportive chase. 

Brushing with lucid wands the water's face ; 

While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps. 

Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. 

— The lights are vanished from the watery plains : 

No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 

Unheeded night has overcome the vales : 

On the dark earth the wearied vision fails : 

The latest lingerer of the forest train. 

The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain j 

Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more. 

Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar j 

And towering from the sullen dark-brown mere. 

Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear. 



And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of "an idiot boy;" 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way. 
And like his bard, confounded night with day; 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells. 
And each adventure so sublimely tells. 
That all who view the " idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, 



1 



Wordsworth.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 321 

— Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel 
A sympathetic twilight slowly steal. 
And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. 
Stay ! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay ! 
Ah no ! as fades the vale, they fade away : 
Yet still the tender, vacant, gloom remains : 
Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. 

The bird who ceased, with fading light, to thread 
Silent the hedge, or steamy rivulet's bed. 
From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon 
Salute with gladsome note the rising moon. 
While with a hoary light she frosts the ground. 
And pours a deeper blue to Other's bound 5 
Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold 
In robes of azure, fleecy- white, and gold. 

Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods. 
O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods j 
Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace. 
Even now she shews, half-veiled, her lovely face : 
Across the gloomy valley flings her light. 
Far to the western slopes with hamlets white -, 
And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, 
To the green corn of summer autumn's hue. 
Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn 
Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn j 
'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer 
The weary hills, imperious, blackening near 5 
— Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while 
On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 

Even now she decks for me a distant scene, 
(For dark and broad the gulf of time between) 
Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray. 
Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way ; 
How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear ! 
How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear ! 
Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, 
'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs 
(For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 
Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. 



322 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Chalmers 

But now the clear bright moon her zenith gains. 

And, rimy without speck, extend the plains : 

The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays. 

Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays 3 

From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide 

The hills, while gleams below the azure tide 5 

Time softly treads ; throughout the landscape breathes 

A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths 

Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood 

Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. 

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day. 
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.- 
Air listens, like the sleeping water, still. 
To catch the spiritual music of the hill. 
Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep. 
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep. 
The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore. 
The boat's first motion — made with dashing oar j 
Sound of closed gate, across the water borne. 
Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn j 
The sportive outcry of the mocking owl ; 
And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl ; 
The distant forge's swinging thump profound ; 
Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 

Poems. An Evening Walk, 



133.— CRUELTY TO ANIMALS. 

[Rev. Dr. Chalmers, 1780 — 1847. 

[Thomas Chalmers, born at Anstruther, March 17, 1780, and educated at the uni- 
versity of St. Andrews, was ordained minister of Kilmany in 1803, and transferred 
to Glasgow in July, 181 5. He was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy at 
the university of St. Andrews in 1823, and Professor of Theology at the university 
of Edinburgh in 1824. He received the degree of D.C.L. from the university of 
Oxford, and was the leader in the Free Church Movement, which took place in 
1843. Dr. Chalmers, who was a prolific writer, is best known by "The Evidence 
and Authority of the Christian Revelation," published in 1814, and the Bridgewater 
treatise, "On the Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifested in the Adap- 
tation of External Nature to the Moral and Intellectual Constitution of Man," in 
1833. He died at Edinburgh, May 30, 1847. " Memoirs of the Life and Writings 
of Dr. Chalmers," by Dr. W. Hanna, appeared in 185 1.] 

Man is the direct agent of a wide and continual distress to the lower 
animals, and the question is. Can any method be devised for its allevia- 



Oialiiias.^ 



CjV MODERK LITEP^4TURE. 



tion r On thas sobject that Scriptural image is strikingly realized, 
" The whole inferior creation groaning and travailing together in pain," 
because of him. It signifies not to the snhstantive amount of the 
sobering, whether this be prompted by the harxlness of his heart, or 
only permitted throngh the heedlessness of his mind. In ather way 
it holds troe, not only that the arch-deronier man stands pne-emineait 
orer the fiercest children of the wildem^s as an animal of prey, but 
-:jii : : J: = lordly and hisnrious appetite, as wdl as for his service or 
-"rTr: jrisity and amnsement, Natore mnst be ransacked throngh- 
i'l L-' r rr^ents. Rather thanfor^^o the vaiest gratifications of 
v.li^:t. i^t 1- —TTo? them firom the anguish of w^retched and iU- 
&ted creauirt: : i whether for the indolgence of his barbar'c ^en- 
soality, or r.i: :: : 5j ei^donr, can stalk paramonnt over the simerlii^^ 



of that pre 
Thatbeante 
trial sovere 
whrther we 
eveoine ski 



Tiresfe a inori 
iron rod of 
mysterious ' 
mataialisir 
Pandemon: : 



dicnon, an 
its privilege 
his cruelty 
sounds in f 
dreadful h: 
The^e r: 



n which has berai pla<^d b^ieath his feei. 

"hereof he has been constituted the tores- 

r:iany blissful and benignant aspects 5 and 

ri efil lakes, or its floweiy landsikpes, or its 

ill • r: a rtine which oveispreads the hills and 

. _e: I ^- eetest sunshine, and wheie ani- 

r. ?h \i.--z eiiberance of gai^y — this surely 

re:: -r r:ir :f clemency, than for the 

, e : : T : t hr = r ant. But the present is a 

e T : ii Ii still beais much upon its 

r : : I :: : . Bm a breath fiom the air of 

: :: er re: : ns,and so "the fear 

:: : eiie, i^^ :.:... upon every beast of 

T : ::^1 of the air^, and iqjon all 

1: i:e of the earth, and upon all the 

::e : la nds are they dehvaed: every moving 

: : e:ei ; yea, even as the green h«bs, there 

_ :— e. ■, Such is the extent of his juris- 

:e :r_ i: eDse has he revelled among 

T ::: e v ' ::i is in violence because of 

e - : : T 1 : : : : 5 entient Xature, there 

enirersal sufiering — 2l 

: :±i lord- 



jwer 01 
'1-r felt- 



msT^T- : : ::. : : : 
fonii ih : r e e 
univei^ t-.-/ 
and tremble- ^: 
do. Thdis 



Xare:r : 
The :- 
::on, and just 

:; of it. Xa: 



: field are not so 



IS 



ractised this 

r I just look, 

:. .i.^_^: .^, .: ,_::_ ng that we 

: pain. Theiis is the unequivocal 

: on the same aspect of terror on the 

y 2 



324 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Chalmers. 

demonstrations of a menaced blow. They exhibit the same distor- 
tions of agony after the infliction of it. The bruise, or the burn, or 
the fracture, or the deep incision, or the fierce encounter with one of 
equal or superior strength, just affects them similarly to ourselves. 
Their blood circulates as ours. They have pulsations in various parts 
of the body like ours. They sicken, and they grow feeble with age, 
and, finally, they die just as we do. They possess the same feelings ; 
and what exposes them to like suff'erings from another quarter, they 
possess the same instincts with our own species. The lioness robbed 
of her whelps causes the wilderness to ring aloud with the proclama- 
tion of her wrongs ; or the bird whose little household has been 
stolen, fills and saddens all the grove with melodies of deepest pathos. 
All this is palpable even to the general and unlearned eye j and 
when the physiologist lays open the recesses of their system by means 
of that scalpel, under whose operation they just shrink and are con- 
vulsed as any living subject of our own species, there stands forth to 
view the same sentient apparatus, and furnished with the same con- 
ductors for the transmission of feeling to every minutest pore upon 
the surface. Theirs is unmixed and unmitigated pain — the agonies of 
martyrdom, without the alleviation of the hopes and the sentiments, 
whereof they are incapable. When they lay them down to die, their 
only fellowship is with sufl^ering^ for in the prison-house of their 
beset and bounded faculties, there can no relief be afforded by com- 
munion with other interests or other things. The attention does not 
lighten their distress as it does that of man, by carrying off his spirit 
from that existing pungency and pressure which might else be over- 
whelming. There is but room in their mysterious economy for one 
inmate ; and that is, the absorbing sense of their own single and con- 
centrated anguish. And so in that bed of torment whereon the 
wounded animal lingers and expires, there is an unexplored depth and 
intensity of suffering which the poor dumb animal itself cannot tell, 
and against which it can offer no remonstrance j an untold and un- 
known amount of wretchedness, of which no articulate voice gives 
utterance. But there is an eloquence in its silence ; and the very 
shroud which disguises it, only serves to aggravate its horrors. — Ser- 
mon on Cruelty to Animals. Proverbs xii. lo. 



Junius.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 325 



134,— CHARACTER OF LORD MANSFIELD.* 

[Junius. 

[The qiaestion of the authorship of the Letters of Junius, which has given rise to much 
controversy, remains unsolved, though it is now generally attributed to Sir Philip 
Francis.f The first letter with this signature was published in " The Public 
Advertiser," January 21, 1769, and the last, the 44th, Jan. 21, 1772. Other letters by 
the same writer appeared under diflPerent signatures. In these anonymous contribu- 
tions the policy of the Grafton and North Administrations w-as assailed, and many of 
the more prominent members were singled out for censure. Lord Macaulay, in a 
letter to John Murray, dated Albany, January 3, 1852, remarks on the question of 
authorship : '' Lord Lyttleton's claims to the authorship of Junius are better than 
those of Burke or Barre', and quite as good as those of Lord George Sackville or 
Single-Speech Hamilton. But the case against Francis, or, if you please, in favour of 
Francis, rests on grounds of a very different kind, and on coincidences such as would 
be sufficient to convict a murderer."] 

The mischiefs you have done this country are not confined to your 
interpretation of the laws. You are a minister, my Lord,, and, as 
such, have long been consulted. Let us candidly examine what use 
you have made of your ministerial influence. I will not descend to 
little matters, but come at once to those important points, on which 
your resolution was waited for, on which the expectation of your 

opinion kept a great part of the nation in suspense. A constitutional 

question arises upon a declaration of the law of parhament, by which 
the freedom of election, and the birth-right of the subject, were 

supposed to have been invaded. The King's serv^ants are accused of 

violating the constitution. The nation is in a ferment. The 

ablest men of all parties engage in the question, and exert their utmost 

abilities in the discussion of it. What part has the honest Lord 

Mansfield acted ? As an eminent judge of the law, his opinion would 

have been respected. As a peer, he had a right to demand an 

audience of his sovereign, and inform him that his ministers were 

pursuing unconstitutional measures. Upon other occasions, my 

Lord, you have no difficulty in finding your way into the closet. The 
pretended neutrality of belonging to no party will not save your 



* William Murray, born at Perth, March 2, 1704, and educated at Oxford, was 
called to the bar in 1731. He was appointed Solicitor-General in 1743, and King's 
Attorney in 1754. He became Chief Justice of the King's Bench in 1756, taking the 
title of Baron Mansfield, and was created an Earl in 1776. His house was burned 
during the Gordon Riots. Retiring from the bench in 1788, he died March 20, 1793. 

t Born in Dublin, Oct. 20, 1740, went to India in 1774, became a member of the 
Council of Bengal, and fought a duel with Warren Hastings. He returned to England 
in 1 781, was elected a member of the House of Commons in 1784, received the order 
of the Bath in 1806, and died Dec. 22, 1818. 



326 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Junius. 

reputation. In questions merely political, an honest man may stand 
neuter. But the laws and constitution are the general property of 
the subject ; — not to defend is to relinquish ; — and who is there so 
senseless as to renounce his share in a common benefit, unless he hopes 
to profit by a new division of the spoil ? As a lord of parliament you 
were repeatedly called upon to condemn or defend the new law 
declared by the House of Commons. You affected to have scruples, 

and every expedient was attempted to remove them. The question 

was proposed, and urged to you in a thousand different shapes. 

Your prudence still supplied you with evasion j — your resolution was 
invincible. For my own part, I am not anxious to penetrate this 
solemn secret. I care not to whose wisdom it is intrusted, nor how 
soon you carry it with you to your grave. You have betrayed your 
opinion by the very care you have taken to conceal it. It is not from 
Lord Mansfield that we expect any reserve in declaring his real senti- 
ments in favour of government, or in opposition to the people ; nor is 
it difficult to account for the motions of a timid, dishonest heart, 
which neither has virtue enough to acknowledge truth, nor courage to 

contradict it. Yet you continue to support an administration which 

you know is universally odious, and which, on some occasions, you 
yourself speak of with contempt. You would fain be thought to 
take no share in government, while, in reality, you are the main spring 

of the machine. Here, too, we trace the little, prudential policy of 

a Scotchman. Instead of acting that open, generous part, which 

becomes your rank and station, you meanly skulk into the closet, and 
give your sovereign such advice as you have not spirit to avow or 
defend. You secretly ingross the power, while you decline the title of 
minister -, and though you dare not be Chancellor, you know how to 
secure the emoluments of the office. — Are the seals to be for ever 
in commission, that you may enjoy five thousand pounds a year? — 
I beg pardon, my Lord ; — your fears have interposed at last, and 
forced you to resign. — The odium of continuing Speaker of the 
House of Lords, upon such terms, was too formidable to be resisted. 
What a multitude of bad passions are forced to submit to a constitu- 
tional infirmity ! But though you have relinquished the salary, you 
still assume the rights of a minister. — Your conduct, it seems, must 
be defended in parliament. — For what other purpose is your wretched 
friend, that miserable serjeant, posted to the House of Commons ? Is 
it in the abilities of Mr. Leigh to defend the great Lord Mansfield ? 
— Or is he only the Punch of the Puppet-show, to speak as he is 
prompted by the Chief Juggler behind the curtain ? 

In public affairs, my Lord, cunning, let it be ever so well wrought, 
will not conduct a man honourably through life. Like bad money. 



RadclifFe.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 32? 

it may be current for a time, but it will soon be cried down. It 
cannot consist with a liberal spirit, tho' it be sometimes united with 
extraordinary qualifications. When I acknowledge your abilities, you 
may believe I am sincere. I feel for human nature when I see a 
man, so gifted as you are, descend to such vile practice. — Yet do not 
suffer your vanity to console you too soon. Believe me, my good 
Lord, you are not admired in the same degree in which you are 
detested. It is 6nly the partiality of your friends that balances the 
defects of your heart with the superiority of your understanding. No 
learned man, even among your own tribe, thinks you qualified to 
preside in a court of common law. Yet it is confessed that, under 
Justinian, you might have made an incomparable Prcetor. — It is re- 
markable enough, but I hope not ominous, that the laws you under- 
stand best, and the judges you affect to admire most, flourished in the 
decline of a great empire, and are supposed to have contributed to its 
fall. Here, my Lord, it may be proper for us to pause together. — 
It is not for my own sake that I wish you to consider the delicacy of 
your situation. Beware how you indulge the first emotions of your 
resentment. This paper is delivered to the world, and cannot be 
recalled. The persecution of an innocent printer cannot alter facts, 
nor refute arguments. — Do not furnish me with farther materials 
against yourself. — An honest man, like the true religion, appeals to 
the understanding, or modestly confides in the internal evidence of his 
conscience. The impostor employs force instead of argument, im- 
poses silence where he cannot convince, and propagates his character 
by the sword. — Letter to Lord Mansfield, Nov. 14, 1770. 



i35._MIDNIGHT VISIT TO A FATHER'S GRAVE. 

[Mrs. Radcliffe, 1764 — 1823. 

[Ann Ward, born in London, July 9, 1764, was married in 1787 to William RadclifFe, 
afterwards proprietor and editor of the "English Chronicle." Her first work, 
"The Castles of Athlin and Dunbaynej a Highland Story," appeared in 1789, "A 
Sicilian Romance," in 1790, "The Romance of the Forest," in 1791, "The 
Mysteries of Udolpho : A Romance," in 1794, and "The Italian: or, the Confes- 
sional of the Black Penitent, a Romance," in 1797. Mrs. Radcliffe, who wrote other 
works and some poetry, is called by Dr. Drake " the Shakespeare of romance writers, 
who to the wild landscape of Salvator Rosa, has added the softer graces of a Claude." 
A memoir is prefixed to one of her works published in 1826, and Sir Walter Scott's 
Life appears in vol. xi. of Ballantyne's Novelist's Library. Mrs. Radcliffe died 
Feb. 7, 1823.] 

It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant 
before Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to 



328 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [RadcliflFe. 

La Vallee. On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the 
cottage to take leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a 
return for their kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench 
at his door, bet^^een his daughter and his son-in-law, who was just 
returned from his daily labour, and who was pla}'ing upon a pipe that 
in tone resembled an oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, 
and, before him, a small table with fruit and bread, around which 
stood several of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were taking 
their supper, as their mother distributed it. On the edge of the little 
green that spread before the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep 
reposing under the trees. The landscape was touched with the mellow 
light of the evening sun, whose long slanting beams played through a 
vista of the woods, and lighted up the distant turrets of the chateau. 
She paused a moment, before she emerged from the shade, to gaze 
upon the happy group before her — on the complacency and ease of 
healthy age, depictured on the countenance of La Voisin ; the maternal 
tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her children 5 and the innocency 
of infantine pleasures, reflected in their smiles. Emily looked again at 
the venerable old man, and at the cottage : the meraory of her father 
rose with fall force upon her mind, and she hastily stepped forv^^ard, 
afraid to trust herself with a longer pause. She took an affectionate 
and affecting leave of La Voisin and his family : he seemed to love 
her as his daughter, and shed tears : Emily shed many. She avoided 
going into the cottage, since she knew it would revive emotions such 
as she could not now endure. 

One painful scene yet awaited her — for she determined to visit again 
her father's grave 3 and that she might not be interrupted, or observed, 
in the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit 
till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised to 
bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily 
remained in her chamber till she heard the convent bell strike twelve, 
when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private 
door that opened into the church ; and they descended together the 
narrow winding staircase that led thither. The nun offered to 
accompany Emily to the grave, adding, " It is melancholy to go alone 
at this hour j" but the former, thanking her for the consideration, 
could not consent to have any witness of her sorrow -, and the sister, 
having unlocked the door, gave her the lamp. *' You will remember, 
sister," said she, " that in the east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly 
opened grave : hold the light to the ground, that you may not stumble 
over the loose earth." Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, 
and, stepping into the church, sister Mariette departed. But Emily 
paused a moment at the door 3 a sudden fear came over her, and she 



Strype.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 329 

returned to the foot of the staircase, where as she heard the steps of 
the nun ascending, and, while she held up the lamp, saw her black 
veil waving over the spiral balusters, she was tempted to call her back. 
While she hesitated, the veil disappeared, and in the next moment, 
ashamed of her fears, she returned to the church. The cold air of the 
aisles chilled her ; and their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon 
by the moonlight, that streamed through a Gothic window, would at 
any other time have awed her into superstition ; now, grief occupied 
all her attention. She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her 
own steps, or thought of the open grave, till she found herself almost 
on its brink. A friar of tlie convent had been buried on the preceding 
evening, and, as she had sat alone in her chamber at twilight, she 
heard at a distance the monks chanting the requiem for his soul. This 
brought freshly to her memory the circumstances of her father's death ; 
and as the voices, mingling with a low querulous peal of the organ, 
swelled faintly, gloomy and affecting visions had arisen upon her mind. 
Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to avoid the broken 
ground, these recollections made her pass on with quicker steps to the 
grave of St. Aubert3 when, in the moonlight that fell athwart a 
remote part of the aisle, she thought she saw a shadow gliding between 
the pillars. She stopped to listen, and not hearing any footstep, 
believed that her fancy had deceived her, and, no longer apprehensive 
of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was buried beneath a plain 
marble, bearing little more than his name, and the date of his birth 
and death, near the foot of the stately monument of the Villerois. 
Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that called the monks to 
early prayers, warned her to retire ; then she wept over it a last fare- 
well, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of melancholy 
indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep than she had ex- 
perienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was more 
tranquil and resigned than it had been since St. Aubert's death. — 
Mysteries of UdoLpho, vol. i. ch. ix. 



136.— THE ACCESSION OF QUEEN MARY. 

[Rev. J. Strype, 1643 — 1737' 

[John Strype, the son of John Van Stryp, a refugee from Brabant, was born at 
Stepney, Nov. i, 1643, and educated at St. Paul's School, and the university of Cam- 
bridge. He was appointed to the perpetual curacy of Theydon-Bois, in Essex, in 
1669, and obtaiiied other preferment. His " Life of Archbishop Cranmer" was pub- 
lished in 1694; his "Life of Sir Thomas Smith" in 1698; his "Annals of the Refor- 
mation" 1709 — 31; and " Ecclesiasticiil Memorials" 1721 — ^^. This prolific 



330 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Strype. 

author wrote other historical and biographical works, all of which were republished 

at the Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1812 — 28. He died at Hackney, Dec. 11, 

I737-] 
Now, while all was in confusion and disturbance, every one running 
to arms, as he stood affected either to Jane"* or Mary 3 and the realm 
seemed generally to verge towards the latter ; great were the fears 
and anxieties that possessed the hearts of the best men, and such 
as loved King Edward's reformation. For they were very appre- 
hensive, that the good religion and pious orders established in his 
reign were going to wreck. They dreaded Mary's marriage with 
some popish foreigner 3 and they foresaw how she, being so nearly 
related to the Emperor, that professed enemy of reformation, would 
take her measures of rule and government by his influence and direc- 
tion. The faithful preachers, very painfully, in their several places, 
set before the people their imminent danger, and shewed them, that 
this judgment of the loss of their excellent king was come upon them 
for their unprofitableness under those opportunities of grace and spiri- 
tual knowledge they enjoyed under him ; and that this was the effect 
of God's angry hand. They exhorted them much to steadfastness, 
and by no means to comply with the popish superstitions that were 
now ready to break in upon them. Which if they did, they assured 
them utter destruction was at hand 3 otherwise, that there was a door 
open, after some sorrowful days, for their deliverance. 

Knox,t the Scotchman, who was one of the chief preachers of the 
nation then, at this time, and for some time before, preached in 
Buckinghamshire : and just while the great tumult was in England, 
and Sir Edward Hastings, Sir Edmund Peckham, and others, were 
busy in that county raising forces, he preached at Amersham before a 
great assembly : where, with sorrowful heart and weeping eyes, (as he 
tells us of himself,) he fell into this exclamation : " O England ! now 
is God's wrath kindled against thee ; now hath he begun to punish, as 
he hath threatened a long while by his true prophets and messengers. 
He hath taken from thee the crown of thy glory, and hath left thee 
without honour, as a body without a head. And this appeareth to be 
only the beginning of sorrows, which appear to increase. For I per- 
ceive that the heart, the tongue, and hand of one Englishman is 



* Lady Jane Grey, daughter of the Duke of Suffolk, born in 1537, married to Lord 
Guildford Dudley in May, 1553, proclaimed Queen July 10, 1553, was tried Nov. 13, 
1553* and beheaded at the Tower, at the same time as her husband, Feb. 12, 1554. 

t Born in 1505, professed himself a Protestant in 1543, resided in England from 
1549 to 1554, and was one of Edward the Sixth's chaplains. He died at Edinburgh, 
Nov. 24, 1572. 



Stiype.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 331 

bent against another, and division to be in the whole realm : which is 
an assured sign of desolation to come. O England, England ! dost 
thou not consider, that thy commonwealth is hke a ship sailing on the 
sea ? If thy mariners and governors shall one consume another, shalt 
thou not suffer shipwreck in short process of time ? O England, Eng- 
land ! alas ! these plagues are poured upon thee, for that thou 
wouldest not know the most happy time of thy gentle visitation. 
But wilt thou yet obey the voice of thy God, and submit thyself to 
his holy word ? Truly, if thou wilt, thou shalt find mercy in his 
sight, and the state of thy commonweal shall be preserved. But, O 
England, England ! if thou obstinately wilt return into Egypt, that is, 
if thou contract marriage, confederacy, or league with such princes as 
do maintain and advance idolatry, such as the Emperor, which is no 
less enemy unto Christ than ever was Nero 3 if for the pleasure and 
friendship of such princes, I say, thou return to thy old abominations 
before used under Papistry 5 then, assuredly, O England ! thou shalt 
be plagued and brought to desolation, by the means of those whose 
favour thou seekest, and by whom thou art procured to fall from 
Christ, and to serv^e Antichrist." These were the lessons now incul- 
cated upon the people. 

MdiTj, therefore, the only child surviving of Queen Katharine of 
Spain, King Henry's first wife, succeeded Queen of England ; one 
very much addicted to the Pope and papal superstitions. She, or 
rather some of her friends in London for her, on the 19th day of 
July, that is, thirteen days after King Edward's death, issued out a 
proclamation, entitling herself supreme Head of the Churches of Eng- 
land and Ireland, signifying to her loving subjects, "that she took 
upon her the crown imperial of the realms of England and Ireland, 
and title of France 5 and that she was in lawful and just possession of 
the same : assuring them, that in reputing and taking her for their 
natural liege sovereign Lady and Queen, they should find her their 
benign and gracious Lady, as others her most noble progenitors had 
been." But Grafton, the printer of this proclamation, found her 
not so ; soon after turning him out of his place of printing state-papers, 
(which he seems to have had by letters patent from King Edward, or 
his father,) and constituting John Cawood her printer in his room. 
And this, no question, because Grafton was a Protestant, and had 
printed the Bible in English, and the public books of religion in the 
former reign : nor was this all the hard measure he found j for the 
next month he was clapped up in prison. 

She was proclaimed between five and six of the clock in the after- 
noon, by four trumpeters and three heralds of arms. There were 
present the Earls of Arundel, Shrewsbury, Pembroke, also the Lord 



332 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Layard. 

Treasurer, Lord Privy Seal, Lord Cobham, Lord Warden of the Cinque 
Ports, Sir John Mason, the Lord Mayor, and divers other noblemen. 
This proclamation was published at the Cross in Cheap : from whence 
they went unto St. Paul's ; and there was sung Te Deum lau- 
damus, with songs, and the organs playing. All the bells throughout 
London rung -, every street enlightened with bonfires, and everywhere 
tables set out furnished with beer and wine for all comers ; and much 
money thrown about. By which significations the people showed 
their complacency in the right legal heir's succession. 

The Duke of Northumberland,* who was departed a few days ago 
with a force against the Queen, to establish his daughter-in-law, (who, 
by his means, was seated upon the throne,) thought he had secured all 
at home : but the nobles, as soon as he was gone, and, some of them 
his confidants, turned about for Mary. And on the 21st of July, the 
Duke being then in Cambridge, was seized as a traitor, with divers 
lords and knights in his company. And, on the same day, was Queen 
Mary proclaimed in the same town ; and so throughout all England. 
And thus, on a sudden, all that fine-spun laboured artifice of consti- 
tuting a new queen, contrary to a law in force, came to nothing, and 
brought ruin upon the contrivers. — Ecclesiastical Memorials. 



137.— EXCAVATIONS AT NIMROUD. 

[Layard, 1817. 

[Austen Henry Layard was born in Paris, March 5, 1817. In 1839 he travelled 
through Albania to Constantinople, where he acted as correspondent to a London 
newspaper. In 1845 he commenced his excavations at Nineveh, and succeeded in 
exhuming several specimens of Assyrian art, many of which have been placed in the 
British Museum. He was appointed Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in 
1852, and sat for Aylesbury from that year till 1857, when he lost his seat. In i860 
he was returned for Southwark, and in 1861 was re-appointed Under-Secretary of 
State for Foreign Affairs. His "Nineveh and its Remains" appeared in 1848, and 
*' Monuments of Nineveh" in 1849.] 

I HAD slept little during the night. The hovel in which we had taken 
shelter, and its inmates, did not invite slumber j but such scenes and 
companions were not new to me : they could have been forgotten, 
had my brain been less excited. Hopes, long cherished, were now to 
be realized, or were to end in disappointment. Visions of palaces 
under ground, of gigantic monsters, of sculptured figures, and end- 
less inscriptions, floated before me. 



* Was taken prisoner at Cambridge July 21, 1553, sent to the Tower July 25, 
tried Aug. 18, and beheaded Aug. 22. 



Layard.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 333 

After forming plan after plan for removing the earth, and extri- 
cating these treasures, I fancied myself wandering in a maze of 
chambers from which I could find no outlet. Then again, all was 
re-buried, and I was standing on the grass-covered mound. Exhausted, 
I was at length sinking into sleep, when hearing the voice of Awad, I 
rose from my carpet, and joined him outside the hovel. 

The day already dawned ; he had returned with six Arabs, who 
agreed for a small sum to work under my direction. 

The lofty cone and broad mound of Nimroud broke like a dis- 
tant mountain on the morning sky. But how changed was the 
scene since my former visit ! The ruins were no longer clothed 
with verdure and many-coloured flowers j no signs of habitation, not 
even the black tent of the Arab, was seen upon the plain. The eye 
wandered over a parched and barren waste, across which occasionally 
swept the whirlwind dragging with it a cloud of sand. About a mile 
from us was the small village of Nimroud, like Naifa, a heap of 
ruins. 

Twenty minutes' walk brought us to the principal mound. The 
absence of all vegetation enabled me to examine the remains with 
which it was covered. Broken pottery and fragments of bricks, both 
inscribed with the cuneiform character, were strewed on all sides. 
The Arabs watched my motions as I wandered to and fro, and ob- 
served with surprise the objects I had collected. They joined, how- 
ever, in the search, and brought me handfuls of rubbish, amongst 
which I found with joy the fragment of a bas-relief. The material 
on which it M^as carved had been exposed to fire, and resembled, in 
every respect, the burnt gypsum of Khorsabad. Convinced from this 
discovery that sculptured remains must still exist in some part of the 
mound, I sought for a place where excavations might be commenced 
with a prospect of success. Awad led me to a piece of alabaster 
which appeared above the soil. We could not remove it, and on 
digging downward, it proved to be the upper part of a large slab. I 
ordered all the men to work round it, and they shortly uncovered 
a second slab to which it had been united. Continuing in the same 
line, we came upon a thirds and, in the course of the morning, 
laid bare ten more, the whole forming a square, with one stone 
missing at the N.W. corner. It was evident that the top of a 
chamber had been discovered, and that the gap was its entrance. I 
now dug down the face of the stones, and an inscription in the cunei- 
form character was soon exposed to view. Similar inscriptions occu- 
pied the centre of all the slabs, which were in the best preservation 3 
but plain, with the exception of the writing. Leaving half the work- 
men to uncover as much of the chamber as possible, I led the rest to 



334 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Leigh Hunt. 

the S.W. corner of the mound, where I had observed many fragments 
of calcined alabaster. 

I dug at once into the side of the mound, which was here very steep, 
and thus avoided the necessity of removing much earth. We came 
almost immediately to a wall, bearing inscriptions in the same cha- 
racter as those already described 5 but the slabs had evidently been 
exposed to intense heat, were cracked in every part, and, reduced to 
lime, threatened to fall to pieces as soon as uncovered. 

Night interrupted our labours. I returned to the village well satisfied 
with their result. It was now evident that buildings of considerable ex- 
tent existed in the mound ; and that although some had been destroyed 
by lire, others had escaped the conflagration. As there were inscrip- 
tions, and as a fragment of a bas-relief had been found, it was natural 
to conclude that sculptures were still buried under the soil. I deter- 
mined to follow the search at the N.W. corner, and to empty the 
cham.ber partly uncovered during the day. — Nineveh and its Remains, 
vol. i, ch. ii. 



138,— THE STRAND. 

[Leigh Hunt, 1784 — 1859. 

[James Henry Leigh Hunt, born at Southgate, Middlesex, Oct. 19, 1784, was 
educated at Christ's Hospital. In 1808 he became joint editor of the "Examiner," 
and from this time devoted himself entirely to literature. His first effort, " Juve- 
nilia, or a Collection of Poems written between the ages of twelve and sixteen," 
appeared in 1801; "The Story of Rimini, a Poem," appeared in 1816; "Recollec- 
tions of Lord Byron," in 1828; the "Legend of Florence, a play," in 1840; and 
"The Town, its Character and Events," in 1848. Leigh Hunt, who was a most 
prolific writer, established various periodicals and wrote several successful dramas. 
He received a pension from the Crown in 1847, ^^^ died at Highgate, Aug. 28, 
1859.] 

In going through Fleet Street and the Strand, we seldom think that 
the one is named after a rivulet, now running underground, and the 
other from its being on the banks of the river Thames. As little do 
most of us fancy that there was once a line of noblemen's houses on 
the one side, and that, at the same time, all beyond the other side, to 
Hampstead or Highgate, was open country, with the little hamlet of 
St. Giles's in a copse. So late as the reign of Henry VIII. we have 
a print containing the village of Charing. Citizens used to take an 
evening stroll to the well now in St. Clement's Inn. 

In the reign of Edward III. the Strand was an open country road, 
with a mansion here and there, on the banks of the river Thames, 
most probably a castle or stronghold. In this state it no doubt re- 



Leigh Hunt.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. .335 

mained during the greater part of the York and Lancaster period. 
From Henrj VII. '3 time the castles most likely began to be ex- 
changed for mansions of a more peaceful character. These gradually 
increased ; and in the reign of Edward VI. the Strand consisted, on 
the south side, of a hne of mansions with garden walls ; and on the 
north, of a single row of houses, behind which aU was field. The 
reader is to imagine wall all the way from Temple Bar to Whitehall, 
on his left hand, like that of Kew Palace, or a succession of Bur- 
lington Gardens j, while the line of humbler habitations stood on the 
other side, like a row of ser\'ants in waiting. 

As wealth increased, not only the importance of rank diminished, 
and the nobles were more content to recollect James's advice of living 
in the country (where, he said, they looked like ships in a river, in- 
stead of ships at sea) , but the value of ground about London, especially 
on the river side, was so much augmented, that the proprietors of 
these princely mansions were not unwilling to turn the premises into 
money. The civil wars had given another jar to the stability of their 
abodes in the metropolis ; and in Charles the Second's time the great 
houses finally gave way, and were exchanged for streets and wharfs. 
An agreeable poet of the last century lets us know what he used to 
think of this great change in going up the Strand. 

" Come, Fortescue, sincere experienced friend. 
Thy briefs, thy deeds, and e'en thy fees suspend 5 
Come, let us leave the Temple's silent walls 3 
Me, business to my distant lodging calls ; 
Through the long Strand together let us stray j 
With thee conversing I forget the way. 
Behold that narrow street which steep descends. 
Whose building to the slimy shore extends • 
Here Arundel's famed structure reared its frame : 
The street alone retains the empty name. 
Where Titian's glowing paint the canvas warmed. 
And Raphael's fair design with judgment charmed. 
Now hangs the bellman's song ; and pasted here 
The coloured prints of Overton appear. 
Where statues breathed, the works of Phidias' hands, 
A wooden pump, or lonely watch-house stands. 
There Essex' stately pile adorned the shore. 
There Cecil's, Bedford's, Villiers', — now no more." 

The Towrij vol. i. chap. iv. 



336 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Kirke- White. 

139.— ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, 

[Kirke-White, 1785 — 1806. 

[Hekry Kirke-White, born at Nottingham, March 21, 1785, was placed at a 
stocking-loom, and then articled to a lawyer. A small volume, entitled " Clifton 
Grove, and other Poems," published by him in 1803, attracted the attention of 
Southey. In 1804 he went to Cambridge, and fell a victim to consumption, Oct. 
19, 1806. His remains, vsdth an account of his life by Robert Southey, appeared in 
1807. Byron alludes to Kirke- White's untimely fate in the following lines in 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers :" — 

" Unhappy White ! while life was in its spring. 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing. 
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away. 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone. 
When Science' self destroyed her favourite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit. 
'Twas thine own genius gave the fetal blow. 
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain. 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again. 
Viewed his own feather on the fetal dart. 
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener fer to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had vsrarmed his nest. 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast."] 

Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold 

Your brilliant places in the sable vault 

Of night's dominions ! — Planets, and central orbs 

Of other systems ; — big as the burning sun 

Which lights this nether globe^ — yet to our eye 

Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! — To you I raise 

My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered. 

My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; 

Too vast^ too boundless for our narrow mind. 

Warped with low prejudices, to unfold. 

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring. 

Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, 

The mighty Founder of this wond'rous maze, 

The great Creator ! Him ! who now sublime. 

Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 

Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 



Kirke-White.] OF MODERX LrTERATURE. 33: 

The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, 

Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime. 

Repeating loud, " The Lord our God is great," 

In varied hannonies. The glorious sounds 

Roll o'er the air serene. The .^k)lian sphCTes, 

Harping along their viewless boundaries. 

Catch the full note, and cry, ''The Lord is great," 

Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all. 

From orb to orb, to the remotest verge 

Of the created world, the sound is bom^ 

Till the whole universe is full of Him. 

Oh I 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear. 
And thrills my inmost souL It bids me smile 
On the vain world and all its bustling cares. 
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 
Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height? 
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale 
Of these stupendous worlds ? Almighty God ! 
Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works. 
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, 
1: e I : k f k : : d benevolence ? Thou canst j 
Fc: Th u ir: f-J of universal love, 
.\:::- ::: :/. boundless goodness wilt impart 
Tiiy r. :^s is well to me as to the proud. 
The pageant insec3 of a glittering hour. 

Ok ! when reflecting on these truths sublime. 
How insignificant do all the joys. 
The gauds, and honours of the world appear ! 
How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp 
Outwatched the slow-paced night ? — ^Why on the page. 
The schoolman's laboured page, have I employed 
The houre devoted by the world to rest. 
And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? 
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay 
The loss of health r or can the hope of glory 
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart. 
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow. 
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye. 
Or paint new colours on this paUid cheek ? 
s 



338 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Trench. 

Say, foolish one, can that unbodied fame. 
For which thou barterest health and happiness. 
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ? 
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs 
Of everlasting punishment condign ? 
Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! 
How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God ! 
Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth. 
And, oh ! assist me so to live on earth. 
That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly. 
The vain illusions of deceitful life. 

Remains. 



140.— REDEEMED FROM SIN. 

[Abp. Trench, 1807. 
[Richard Chenevix Trench, born Sep. 9, 1807, was educated at Trinity College, 
Cambridge, where he graduated in 1829, and was soon afterwards ordained. His 
first publication, " Salvation, and other Poems," appeared in 1838. Mr. Trench, 
who was Hulsean Lecturer at Cambridge, 1845-6, having held various appoint- 
ments in the church, was made Dean of Westminster in 1856, and Archbishop of 
Dublin, Jan. i, 1864. In addition to numerous poems. Dr. Trench is the author of 
several volumes of sermons, and other works, the best known being " Notes on the 
Parables," published in 1841; "Notes on the Miracles of our Lord," in 1846, and 
" Five Lectures on the Study of Words," in 185 1.] 

What again is "Know thyself" — that great saying of the heathen 
philosophy, in which, when it turned from being merely physical and 
a speculation about natural appearances, the sun, the moon and the 
stars, to the making of man and man's being the region in which it 
moved, the riddles of humanity the riddles which it sought to solve — 
what was that " Know thyself," that great word in which it embodied 
and expressed so well its own character and aim, and all that it pro- 
posed to effect, but a preparation afar off for a higher word, the 
" Repent ye," of the Gospel ? Since, let that precept only be faithfully 
carried out, and in what else could it issue but repentance ? or at least 
in what else but in an earnest longing after this great change of heart 
and life ? For out of this self-knowledge what else can grow but self- 
loathing ? So that men being once come, as they presently must, to a 
consciousness of their error and their departure from goodness and 
truth, should hate themselves, and flee from themselves to whatever 
higher guide was offered them ; to the end that they might become 
different men, and not remain the same which before they were. 



Delolme.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 339 

What could man behold himself, if only he beheld himself aright^ but, 
to use the wonderful comparison of Plato, as that sea-god, in whom 
the pristine form was now scarcely to be recognised, so were some limbs 
of his body broken off, and some marred and battered by the violence of 
the waves, while to the rest shells and stones and sea-weed had clung 
and overgrown them, till he bore a resemblance rather to some monster 
than to that which by nature he was ? What was man but such a 
wreck of his nobler self, what but such a monster could he show in 
his own eyes, if only he could be prevailed to fix those eyes steadfastly 
upon himself? 

And when men, thus learning their fall, and how great it was, 
learned also to long for their restoration, very interesting and instructive 
is it to observe how Christ realized for yearning souls not only the 
very thing which they asked for, but that in the very forms under 
which they had asked it ; most instructive to observe how the very 
language of Scripture, in which it sets forth the gifts which a Saviour 
brings, was a language which more or less had been used already to set 
forth the blessings which men wanted, or which from others they had 
most imperfectly obtained. The Gospel falls in not only with the 
wants of souls, but with the expression of those wants. 

Thus there had continually spoken out in men a sense of that 
which they needed to be done for them, as a healing, as a binding up 
of hurts, a stanching of wounds. The art of the physician did but 
image forth a higher cure and care, which should concern itself not 
with the bodies, but with the souls, of men. They were but the 
branches of one and the same discipline, so much so, that the same 
god who was conceived master in one, the soother of passions, was 
master also in the other, the healer of diseases. It was conceived 
of sins as of stripes and wounds, leaving their livid marks, their en- 
during scars, on the miserable souls which had committed them, and 
which carried those evidences of their guilt, visibly impressed on them 
for ever, into that dark world, and before those awful judgment-seats, 
whither after death they were bound. — Hulsean Lectures for 1845. 
Lect. vi. Romans vii. 21, 23. 



141.— THE FAVOURITE OF THE PEOPLE. 

[Delolme, 1740 — t8o6. 

[Jean Louis Delolme, born at Geneva, in 1740, followed the profession of an 
advocate. In consequence of the very prominent part which he took in political 
affairs he was compelled to quit his native country, and he settled in England. For 
many years he lived in great poverty, devoting himself almost entirely to literary 

z a 



340 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Delolme. 

labours. His " Constitution de I'Angleterre/' &c., written in French, was published 
at Amsterdam, in 1771, and the English edition, translated by himself, appeared 
under the title of "The Constitution of England," in 1772. "The History of the 
Flagellants, or the Advantages of Discipline," appeared in 1777, and was re-issued 
under a new title, " Memorials of Human Superstition," in 1784. Delolme, who 
wrote some smaller treatises, returned to Switzerland in 1775, and died July 16, 
1806. His life, by John Macgregor, is prefixed to an edition of "The Constitution 
of England," published in Bohn's Standard Library in 1853. Junius speaks of this 
work as " A performance deep, solid, and ingenious."] 

The only man, therefore, who, to persons unacquainted with the 
constitution of England, might at first sight appear in a condition to 
pat the government in danger, would be one who, by the greatness of 
his abilities and pubUc services, might have acquired in a high degree 
the love of the people, and obtained a great influence in the House 
of Commons. 

But how great soever this enthusiasm of the public may be, barren 
applause is the only fruit which the man whom they favour can 
expect from it. He can hope neither for a dictatorship, nor a consul- 
ship, nor in general for any power under the shelter of which he may 
at once safely unmask that ambition with which we might suppose 
him to be actuated, or, if we suppose him to have been hitherto free 
from any, grow insensibly corrupt. The only door which the con- 
stitution leaves open to his ambition, of whatever kind it may be, is a 
place in the administration, during the pleasure of the king. If, by 
the continuance of his services, and the preservation of his influence, 
he becomes able to aim still higher, the only door which again opens 
to him is that of the House of Lords. 

But this advance of the favourite of the people towards the establish- 
ment of his greatness is at the same time a great step towards the loss 
of that power which might render him formidable. 

In the first place, the people, seeing that he is become much less 
dependent on their favour, begii?, from that very moment, to lessen 
their attachment to him. Seeing him moreover distinguished by 
privileges which are the objects of their jealousy, I mean their political 
jealousy, and member of a body whose interests are frequently 
opposite to theirs, they immediately conclude that this great and new 
dignity cannot have been acquired but through a secret agreement to 
betray them. Their favourite, thus suddenly transformed, is going, 
they make no doubt, to adopt a conduct entirely opposite to that 
wtiich has till then been the cause of his advancement and high 
reputation, and, in the compass of a few hours, comj^letely to renounce 
those principles which he has so long and so loudly professed. In tliis, 
certainly, the people are mistaken^ but yet neither would they be 
wrong, if they feared that a zeal hitherto so warm, so constant, I will 



[ 



Dickens.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 341 

even add, so sincere, when it concurred with their favourite's private 
interest, would — by being thenceforth often in opposition to it — 
become gradually much abated. 

Nor is this all ; the favourite of the people does not even find in his 
new dignity all the increase of greatness and eclat that might at first 
be imagined. Hitherto he was, it is true, only a private individual ; 
but then he was the object in which the whole nation interested them- 
selves : his actions and words were set forth in the public prints 5 and 
he everywhere met with applause and acclamation. 

All these tokens of public favour are, I know, sometimes acquired 
very lightly 3 but they never last long, whatever people may say, unless 
real services are performed : now, the title of benefactor to the nation, 
when deserved, and universally bestowed, is certainly a very handsome 
title, and which does nowise require the assistance of outward pomp 
to set it off. Besides, though he was only a member of the inferior 
body of the legislature, we must observe, he was the first ; and the 
word first is always a word of very great moment. 

But now that he is made a lord, all his greatness, which hitherto 
was indeterminate, becomes defined. By granting him privileges 
established and fixed by known laws., that uncertainty is taken from 
his lustre which is of so much importance in those things which depend 
on imagination ; and his value is lowered, just because it is ascertained. 
— The Constitution of England. Book ii. chap, i. 



142.— MR. PECKSNIFF AND HIS PUPIL. 

[Dickens, 1812. 

[Charles Dickens, bom at Portsmouth in 1812, was for a short time an attorne/s 
clerk, and then became a reporter. Some of his contributions to the Morning 
Chronicle were republished in 1836, under the title " Sketches by Boz." This 
was his first work. The first number of the " Posthumous Papers of the Pick- 
wick' Club," completed in twenty parts, appeared in 1837. "The Life and Ad- 
ventures of Nicholas Nickleby " followed in 1839, ^^'^ "Martin Chuzzlewit " in 
1844. Mr. Dickens was the first editor of Bentley's Miscellany, which appeared in 
Jan. 1837. In 1841, he visited America, and on his return in 1842, published his 
"American Notes for General Circulation." In 1843 he published "A Christmas 
Carol," a new style of Christmas book, of which series four more appeared, viz., 
"The Chimes" in 1844, "The Cricket on the Hearth" in Jan. 1846, "The Battle 
of Life " in Dec. 1846, and " The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain" in Dec. 
1848. Mr. Dickens was the first editor of the Daily Neics, established Jan. i, 1846, 
and he brought out a new weekly periodical entitled " Household Words " in 1851. 
It ceased in 1859, when "All the Year Round" was established in its place. Mr. 
Dickens is the author of several other works. The first number of " Our Mutual 
Friend" appeared in May, 1864; "The Mystery of Edwin Drood," April i, 1870.] 



342 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Dickens, 



Mr. Pecksniff had clearly not expected them for hours to come 3 for 
he was surrounded by open books, and was glancmg from volume 
to volume, with a black-lead pencil in his mouth, and a pair of com- 
passes in his hand, at a vast number of mathematical diagrams, of such 
extraordinary shapes that they looked like designs for fireworks. 
Neither had Miss Charity expected them, for she was busied, with a 
capacious wicker basket before her, in making impracticable nightcaps 
for the poor. Neither had Miss Mercy expected them, for she was 
sitting upon her stool, tying on the — oh, good gracious ! — the petticoat 
of a large doll that she was dressing for a neighbour's child ; really, 
quite a grown-up doll, which made it more confusing : and had its 
little bonnet dangling by the ribbon from one of her fair curls, to 
which she had fastened it, lest it should be lost, or sat upon. It would 
be difficult, if not impossible, to conceive a family so thoroughly taken 
by surprise as the Pecksniffs were on this occasion. 

"^ Bless my life !" said Mr. Pecksniff, looking up, and gradually ex- 
changing his abstracted face for one of joyful recognition. '' Here 
already ! Martin, my dear boy, I am delighted to welcome you to 
my poor house !" 

With this kind greeting, Mr. Pecksniff fairly took him to his arms, 
and patted him several times upon the back with his right hand the 
while, as if to express that his feelings during the embrace were too 
much for utterance. 

"But here," he said, recovering, "are my daughters, Martin: my 
two only children, whom (if you ever saw them) you have not beheld 
— ah, these sad family divisions ! — since you were infants together. 
Nay, my dears, why blush at being detected in your every-day pursuits ? 
We had prepared to give you the reception of a visitor, Martin, in our 
little room of state," said Mr. Pecksniff, smihng, " but I like this 
better — I like this better!" 

Oh, blessed star of Innocence, wherever you may be, how did you 
glitter in your home of ether, when the two Miss Pecksniffs put forth, 
each her lily hand, and gave the same, with mantling cheeks, to 
Martin ! How did you twinkle, as if fluttering with sympathy, when 
Mercy, reminded of the bonnet in her hair, hid her fair face and 
turned her head aside : the while her gentle sister plucked it out, and 
smote her, with a sister's soft reproof, upon her buxom shoulder ! 

" And how," said Mr. Pecksniff', turning round after the contem- 
plation of these passages, and taking Mr. Pinch in a friendly manner 
by the elbow, "how has our friend here used you, Martin?" 

" Very well indeed, sir. We are on the best terms, I assure you." 

" Old Tom Pinch !" said Mr. Pecksniff", looking on him with 
affectionate sadness. " Ah ! It seems but yesterday that Thomas was 



Dickens.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 343 

a boy, fresh from a scholastic course. Yet years have passed, I thmk, 
since Thomas Pinch and I first walked the world together !" 

Mr. Pinch could say nothing. He was too much moved. But he 
pressed his master's hand, and tried to thank him. 

"And Thomas Pinch and I," said Mr. Pecksniff, in a deeper voice, 
" will walk it yet, in mutual faithfulness and friendship ! And if it 
comes to pass that either of us be ran over, in any of those busy cross- 
ings which divide the streets of life, the other will convey him to the 
hospital in Hope, and sit beside his bed in Bounty !" 

'''Well, well, well!" he added in a happier tone, as he shook Mr. 
Pinch's elbow, hard. " No more of this ! Martin, my dear friend, 
that you may be at home within these walls, let me show you how 
we live, and where. Come !" 

Witli that he took up a lighted candle, and, attended by his young 
relative, prepared to leave the room. At the door he stopped. 

"You'll bear us company, Tom Pinch?" 

Ay, cheerfully, though it had been to death, would Tom have 
followed him : glad to lay down his life for such a man ! 

"This," said Mr. Pecksniff, opening the door of an opposite 
parlour, " is the little room of state I mentioned to you. My girls 
have pride in it, Martin ! This," opening another door, "is the little 
chamber in which my works (slight things at best) have been con- 
cocted. Portrait of myself, by Spiller. Bust by Spoker. The latter 
is considered a good likeness. I seem to recognise something about 
the left-hand corner of the nose, myself." 

Martin thought it was very like, but scarcely intellectual enough. 
Mr. Pecksniff observed that the same fault had been found with it 
before. It was remarkable it should have struck his young relation 
too. He was glad to see he had an eye for art. 

" Various books, you observe," said Mr. Pecksniff, waving his hand 
towards the wall, " connected with our pursuit. I have scribbled 
myself, but have not yet published. Be careful how you come up 
stairs. This," opening another door, " is my chamber. I read here 
when the family suppose I have retired to rest. Sometimes I injure 
my health, rather more than I can quite 'justify to myself, by doing 
so 5 but art is long and time is short. Every facihty you see for 
jotting down crude notions, even here." 

These latter words were explained by his pointing to a small round 
table, on which were a lamp, divers sheets of paper, a piece of India 
rubber, and a case of instruments : all put ready, in case an architec- 
tural idea should come into Mr. PecksnifFs head in the night j in 
which event he would instantly leap out of bed, and fix it for ever. 

Mr. Pecksniff opened another door on the same floor, and shut it 



344 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Dickens 

again, all at once, as if it were a Blue Chamber. But before he had 
well done so, he looked smilingly round, and said, ''Why not ?" 

Martin couldn't say why not, because he didn't know anything at 
all about it. So Mr. Pecksniff answered himself, by throwing open 
the door, and saying : 

*' My daughters' room. A poor first-floor to us, but a bower to 
them. Very neat. Very airy. Plants you observe ; hyacinths -, books 
again ; birds." These birds, by the bye, comprised in all one stagger- 
ing old sparrow without a tail, which had been borrowed expressly 
from the kitchen. " Such trifles as girls love are here. Nothing 
more. Those who seek heartless splendour, would seek here in vain." 

With that he led them to the floor above. 

"This," said Mr. Pecksniff, throwing wide the door of the memo- 
rable two-pair front ; "is a room where some talent has been deve- 
loped, I believe. This is a room in which an idea for a steeple 
occurred to me, that I may one day give to the world. We work 
here, my dear Martin. Some architects have been bred in this room : 
a few, I think, Mr. Pinch?" 

Tom fully assented -, and, what is more, fully believed it. 

"You see," said Mr. Pecksniff, passing the candle rapidly from roll 
to roll of paper, " some traces of our doings here. Salisbury Cathe- 
dral from the north. From the south. From the east. From the 
west. From the south-east. From the nor' -west. A bridge. An 
alms-house. A jail. A church. A powder-magazine. A wine- 
cellar. A portico. A summer-house. An ice-house. Plans, eleva- 
tions, sections, every kind of thing. And this," he added, having by 
this time reached another large chamber on the same story, with four 
little beds in it, " this is your room, of which Mr. Pinch here, is the 
quiet sharer. A southern aspect ; a charming prospect ; Mr. Pinch's 
little library, you perceive ; everything agreeable and appropriate. If 
there is any additional comfort you would desire to have here at any 
time, pray mention it. Even to strangers — far less to you, my dear 
Martin — there is no restriction on that point." 

It was undoubtedly true, and may be stated in corroboration of Mr. 
Pecksniff, that any pupil had the most liberal permission to mention 
anything in this way that suggested itself to his fancy. Some young 
gentlemen had gone on mentioning the very same thing for five years 
without ever being stopped. 

"The domestic assistants," said Mr. Pecksniff, "sleep above j and 
that is all." After which, and listening complacently as he went, to 
the encomiums passed by his young friend on the arrangements gene- 
rally, he led tlie way to the parlour again. — Martin Chuzzlewit, 
chap. V. 



More.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 345 

143.— THE ISLAND OF UTOPIA. 

[Sir T. More, 1480— 1535. 

[Thomas More, born in Milk Street, London, in 1480, was educated at Oxford, 
where he formed a friendship with Erasmus. He applied himself to the study of 
the law, was made a Privy Councillor in 15 16, and Speaker of the House of Com- 
mons in 1523. Henry VIII. sought his society, and on the fall of Wolsey in 1529 
gave him the Great Seal Oct. 17. Sir Thomas More, disapproving of the King's 
divorce from Catherine of Aragon, resigned the Chancellorship May 16, 1532, was 
attainted in 1534, condemned for denying the King's supremacy July i, 1535, and 
beheaded on Tower Hill July 6.* He was the author of several works, the best 
known of which are his " Life of Richard III." written in English, and first pub- 
lished in 1641, and the " Utopia," written in Latin, published in 15 15, of which a 
translation by Ralphe Robynson appeared in 155 1. It has been frequently trans- 
lated. Bishop Burnet's version was published in 1684. There are numerous 
biographies of this illustrious man, of whom Erasmus wrote, " What mind was 
ever framed by nature more gentle, more pleasing, more gifted ? It is incredible 
what a treasure of old books is found heref far and wide. There is so much erudi- 
tion, not of a vulgar and ordinary kind, but recondite, accurate, ancient, both Latin 
and Greek, that you would not seek anything in Italy but the pleasure of travelling."] 

The island of Utopia, in the middle of it, where it is broadest, is two 
hundred miles broad, and holds almost at the same breadth over a 
great part of it ; but it grows narrower towards both ends. Its figure 
is not unlike a crescent : between its horns, the sea comes in eleven 
miles broad, and spreads itself into a great bay, which is environed 
with land to the compass of about five hundred miles, and is well 
secured from winds 5 there is no great current in the bay, and the 
whole coast is, as it were, one continued harbour, which gives all that 
live in the island great convenience for mutual commerce : but the 
entry into the bay, what by rocks on one hand, and shallows on the 
other, is very dangerous. In the middle of it there is one single rock 
which appears above water, and so is not dangerous 3 on the top 
of it there is a tower built, in which a garrison is kept. The other 
rocks lie under water, and are very dangerous. The channel is known 
only to the natives, so that if any stranger should enter into the bay 
without one of their pilots, he would run a great danger of ship- 
wreck : for even they themselves could not pass it safe if some marks 
that are on their coast did not direct their way ; and if these should be 
but a little shifted, any fleet that might come against them, how 
great soever it were, would be certainly lost. 

On the other side of the island there are likewise many harbours, 
and the coast is so fortified, both by nature and art, that a small 
number of men can hinder the descent of a great army. But they 



♦See page 3 1 4. f Oxford, 



346 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK tMore. 

report (and there remain good marks of it to make it credible) that 
this was no island at first, but a part of the continent. Utopus, that 
conquered it (whose name it still carries, for Abraxa was its first name), 
and brought the rude and uncivilized inhabitants into such a good 
government, and to that measure of politeness, that they do now far 
excel all the rest of mankind ; having soon subdued them, he designed 
to separate them from the continent, and to bring the sea quite about 
them, and in order to that, he made a deep channel to be digged, 
fifteen miles long : that the natives might not think he treated them 
like slaves, he not only forced the inhabitants to work at it, but like- 
wise his own soldiers : and having set vast numbers of men to work, 
he brought it to a speedy conclusion, beyond all men's expectations. 
By this, their neighbours, who laughed at the folly of the undertaking 
at first, were struck with admiration and terror when they saw it 
brought to perfection. There are fifty-four cities in the island, all 
large and well built. The manners, customs, and laws of all their 
cities are the same, and they are all contrived as near in the same 
manner as the ground on which they stand will allow : the nearest lie 
at least twenty-four miles distance from one another, and the most re- 
mote are not so far distant but that a man can go on foot in one day 
from it to that which lies next it. Every city sends three of their wisest 
senators once a year to Amaurot, for consulting about their common 
concerns : for that is the chief town of the island, being situated near 
the centre of it, so that it is the most convenient place for their 
assemblies. Every city has so much ground set off' for its jurisdiction 
that there is twenty miles of soil round it assigned to it ; and where 
the towns lie wider they have much more ground : no town desires to 
enlarge their bounds ; for they consider themselves rather as tenants 
than landlords of their soil. They have built over all the country 
farm-houses for husbandmen, which are well contrived, and are fur- 
nished with all things necessary for country labour. Inhabitants are 
sent by turns from the cities to dwell in them ; no country family has 
fewer than forty men and women in it, besides two slaves. There is 
a master and a mistress set over every family, and over thirty families 
there is a magistrate settled. Every year twenty of this family come 
back to the town, after they hav-e stayed out two years in the country j 
and in their room there are other twenty sent from the town, that they 
may learn country work from those that have been already one year 
in the country, which they must teacli those that come to them the 
next year from the town. By this means such as dwell in those 
country farms are never ignorant of agriculture, and so commit no 
errors in it, which might otherwise be fatal to them and bring them 
under a scarcity of corn. But though there is every year such a 



Burckhardt.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 347 

shifting of the husbandmen, that none may be forced against his 
mind to follow that hard course of living too long, yet many among 
them take such pleasure in it, that they desire leave to continue many 
years in it. These husbandmen labour the ground, breed cattle, hew 
wood, and convey it to the towns, either by land or water, as is most 
convenient. They breed an infinite multitude of chickens in a very 
curious manner ; for the hens do not sit and hatch them, but they 
lay vast numbers of eggs in a gentle and equal heat, in which they 
are hatched 3 and they are no sooner out of the shell and able to stir 
about, but they seem to consider those that feed them as their mothers, 
and follow them as other chickens do the hen that hatched them. 
They breed very few horses, but those they have are full of mettle, 
and are kept only for exercising their youth in the art of sitting and riding 
of them ; for they do not put them to any work either of ploughing 
or carriage, in which they employ oxen : for though horses are 
stronger, yet they lind oxen can hold out longer 3 and as they are not 
subject to so many diseases, so they are kept upon a less charge and 
with less trouble : and when they are so worn out that they are no 
more lit for labour they are good meat at last. They sow no corn 
but that which is to be their bread, for they drink either wine, cider, or 
perry, and often water, sometimes pure, and sometimes boiled with 
honey or licorice, with which they abound, and though they know 
exactly well how much corn will serve every town, and all that 
tract of country which belongs to it, yet they sow much more and 
breed more cattle than are necessary for their own consumption ; 
and they give that overplus of which they make no use to their 
neighbours. When they want anything in the country which it does 
not produce, they fetch that from the town, without carrying anything 
in exchange for it 5 .and the magistrates of the town take care to 
see it given them, for they meet generally in the town once a month, 
upon a festival day. When the time of harvest comes the magis- 
trates in the country send to those in the towns, and let them know 
how many hands they will need for reaping the harvest ; and the 
number they call for being sent to them, they commonly despatch it all 
in one day. — Utopia, or the Happy Republic ; a Philosophical Romance. 
Book ii. 



144.— M E C C A . 

[Burckhardt, 1784 — 1817. 
[Jean Louis Burckhardt, born at Lausanne in Switzerland, Nov. 24, 1784, was 
educated at Leipsic and Gottingen. He came to London in 1806, and left Malta, 
under the auspices of the African Association, to explore the route of Hornemann in 



348 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Burckhardt. 



the interior of Africa, Feb. 14, 1809. Having visited Damascus, Aleppo, Nubia, 
Mount Sinai, Upper Egypt, Mecca, he w^as seized with dysentery at Cairo, whilst 
waiting for the Fezzan caravan, and died Oct. 15, 1817, without having attained 
the main object of his mission — a visit to Central Africa. The African Association 
undertook the publication of his journals. His "Travels in Nubia" appeared in 
1819J " Travels in Syria and the Holy Land," in 1822; "Travels in Arabia," in 
1829; "Notes on the Bedouins and Wahabys," in 1830, and "Arabic Proverbs; or 
the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians illustrated from their Prover- 
bial Sayings," in 1830. A life of Burckhardt is prefixed to his "Travels in Arabia."] 

Mekka is dignified among the Arabs with many lofty-sounding titles. 
The most common are Om el Kora (the mother of towns) 3 El Mo- 
sherefe (the noble) ; Beled al Ameyn (the region of the faithful). 
Firuzabadi, the celebrated author of the Kamus, has composed a 
whole treatise on the different names of Mekka. This town is situated 
in a valley, narrow and sandy, the main direction of wliich is from 
north to south ; but it inclines towards the north-west near the southern 
extremity of the town. In breadth this valley varies from one hun- 
dred to seven hundred paces, the chief part of the city being placed 
where the valley is most broad. In the narrower part are single rows 
of houses only, or detached shops. The town itself covers a space of 
about fifteen hundred paces in length, from the quarter called El 
Shebeyka, to the extremity of the Mala ; but the whole extent of 
ground comprehended under the denomination of Mekka, from the 
suburb called Djerouel (where is the entrance from Djidda) to the 
suburb called Moabede (on the Tayf road), amounts to three thousand 
five hundred paces. The mountains inclosing this valley (which 
before the town was built, the Arabs had named Wady Mekka or 
Bekka) are from two to five hundred feet in height, completely barren 
and destitute of trees. The principal chain lies on the eastern side of 
the town ; the valley slopes gently towards the south, where stands the 
quarter called El Mesfale (the low place). The rain-water from the 
town is lost towards the south of Mesfale in the open valley named 
Wady el Tarafeyn. Most of the town is situated in the valley itself ; but 
there are also parts built on the sides of the mountains, principally of 
the eastern chain, where the primitive habitations of the Koreysah 
and the ancient town appear to have been placed. 

Mekka may be styled a handsom.e town : its streets are in general 
broader than those of eastern cities ; the houses lofty, and built of 
stone ; and the numerous windows that face the street gives them a 
more lively and European aspect than those of Egypt or Syria, where 
the houses present but few windows towards the exterior. Mekka 
(like Djidda) contains many houses three stories high ; few at Mekka 
are whitewashed ; but the dark grey colour of the stone is much pre- 
ferable to the glaring white that offends the eye in Djidda. In most 



Russell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 349 

towns of the Levant the narrowness of a street contributes to its cool- 
ness : and in countries where wheel-carriages are not used, a space 
that allows two loaded camels to pass each other is deemed sufficient. 
At Mekka, however, it was necessary to leave the passages wide, for 
the innumerable visitors who here crowd together 3 and it is in the 
houses adapted for the reception of pilgrims and other sojourners, that 
the windows are so contrived as to command a view of the streets. — 
Travels in Aralia. 



145.— THE CAVALRY CHARGE AT BALAKLAVA. 

[W. H. Russell, 1821. 
[William Howard Russell, born at Lily Vale, in the county of Dublin, March 28, 
182 1, and educated at Trinity College, Dublin, joined the staff of the Times in 1843, 
and was called to the bar in 1850. His letters in the Times from the Crimea, which 
attracted considerable attention, were republished in 1855-6, and have gone through 
several editions. Mr. Russell joined Lord Clyde's head-quarters in India in 1857, 
went as special correspondent to America in i86t, andwas on board the G^-eat 
Eastern in the unsuccessful attempt to lay the Atlantic Telegraph in 1865. M*-. 
Russell's "Diary in India" appeared in i860, " My Diary North and South" in 
1863, and "The Atlantic Telegraph" in 1865. The Army and Navy Gazette was 
established by Mr. Russell in 1859.] 

The cavalry who have been pursuing the Turks on the right are 
coming up to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry from 
view. The hea\y brigade in advance is drawn up in two lines. The 
first line consists of the Scots Greys, and of their old companions in 
glory, the Enniskillens ; the second of the 4th Royal Irish, of the ^th 
Dragoon Guards, and of the ist Royal Dragoons. The Light Cavalry 
Brigade is on their left, in two lines also. The silence is oppressive ; 
between the cannon bursts one can hear the champing of bits and the 
clink of sabres In the valley below. The Russians on their left drew 
breath for a moment, and then in one grand line dashed at the High- 
landers. The ground flies beneath their horses' feet; gathering speed 
at ever}"" stride, they dash on towards that thin red streak topped with 
a line of steel. The Turks fire a volley at eight hundred yards, and 
run. As the Russians come within six hundred yards^ down goes 
that line of steel in front, and out rings a rolling volley of Minie 
musketr}^ The distance is too great ; the Russians are not checked, 
but still sweep onward through the smoke, with the whole force of 
horse and man, here and there knocked over by the shot of our bat- 
teries above. With breathless suspense every one awaits the bursting 
of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock ; but ere they come within 
a hundred and fifty yards, another deadly volley flashes from the 



35° THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Russell. 

levelled rifle, and carries death and terror into the Russians. They 
wheel about, open files right and left, and fly back faster than they 
came. "Bravo, Highlanders! well done!" shout the excited spec- 
tators j but events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid 
front are soon forgotten, men scarcely have a moment to think of this 
fact, that the 93rd never altered their formation to receive that tide of 
horsemen. "No," said Sir Colin Campbell, "I did not think it 
worth while to form them even four deep !" The ordinary British 
line, two deep, was quite sufficient to repel the attack of these Musco- 
vite cavahers. Our eyes were, however, turned in a moment on our 
own cavalry. We saw Brigadier-General Scarlett ride along in front 
of his massive squadrons. The Russians — evidently corps (T elite — 
their light blue jackets embroidered with silver lace, were advancing 
on their left, at an easy gallop, towards the brow of the hill. A 
forest of lances glistened in their rear, and several squadrons of grey- 
coated dragoons moved up quickly to support them as they reached 
the summit. The instant they came in sight the trumpets of our 
cavalry gave out the warning blast which told us all that in another 
moment we should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes. 
Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort, and groups of officers, the 
Zouaves, French generals and officers, and bodies of French infantry 
on the height, were spectators of the scene, as though they were 
looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one 
dismounted and sat down, and not a word was said. The Russians 
advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed to a 
trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least double the 
length of ours — it was three times as deep. Behind them was a 
similar line, equally strong and compact. They evidently despised 
their insignificant looking enemy, but the time was come. The 
trumpets rang out again through the valley, and the Greys and Ennis- 
killeners went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The space 
between them was only a few hundred yards : it was scarce enough 
to let the horses "gather way," nor had the men quite space sufficient 
for the full play of their sword arms. The Russian line brings for- 
ward each wing as our cavalry advance, and threatens to annihilate 
them as they pass on. Turning a little to their left so as to meet the 
Russian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to every 
heart — the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises through the air at 
the same instant. As lightning flashes through a cloud, the Greys 
and Enniskilleners pierced through the dark masses of Russians. The 
shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel and a light 
play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the redcoats dis- 
appear in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In another 



Young.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 351 

moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished 
numbers, and in broken order, against the second hne, which is 
advancing against them as fast as it can to retrieve the fortune of the 
charge. It was a terrible moment. " God help them ! they are 
lost!" was the exclamation of more than one man, and the thought 
of many. With unabated fire the noble hearts dashed at their enemy. 
It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians, which had been 
smashed utterly by our charge, and had fled off at one flank and 
towards the centre, were coming back to swallow up our handful of 
men. By sheer steel and sheer courage, Enniskillener and Scot were 
winning their desperate way right through the enemy's squadrons, 
and already grey horses and red coats had appeared right at the rear 
of the second masS;, when, with irresistible force, like one bolt from a 
bow, the ist Royals, the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th Dragoon 
Guards rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy, went 
through it as though it were made of pasteboard, and dashing on the 
second body of Russians as they were still disordered by the terrible 
assault of the Greys and their companions, put them to utter rout. 

This Russian Horse in less than five minutes after it met our 
dragoons, was flying with all its speed before a force certainly not 
half its strength. A. cheer burst from every lip — in the enthusiasm, 
officers and men took off their caps and shouted with delight, and 
thus keeping up the scenic character of their position, they clapped 
their hands again and again. Lord Raglan at once despatched Lieu- 
tenant Curzon, aide-de-camp, to convey his congratulations to Briga- 
dier-General Scarlett, and to say "Well done." The gallant old 
officer's face beamed with pleasure when he received the message. 
"I beg to thank his lordship very sincerely," was his reply. The 
cavalry did not long pursue the enemy. Their loss was very slight — 
about thirty-five killed and wounded in both affairs. There were not 
more than four or five men killed outright, and our most material loss 
was from the cannon playing on our heavy dragoons afterwards, when 
covering the retreat of our light cavalry. — Tke lVar,fro7n the Landing 
at GaUipoli to the Death of Lord Raglan. 



146.— THE LAST DAY. 

[Dr. Young, 1684 — 1765. 

[Edward Young, born at Upham in June, 1684, was educated at the University of 

Oxford. His first poem, an " Epistle to Lord Lansdowne," was published in 17 13. 

" A Poem on the Last Day" appeared during the same year. " Busiris," a tragedy, was 

brought out at Drury Lane in 171 9, and " The Revenge" in 172 1. Young, who took 



352 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Young. 

the degree of LL.D. in 1719, entered into holy orders in 1728, and was afterwards 
appointed chaplain to George II. He wrote other works in prose and verse, the 
principal being " The Universal Passion," seven satires, 1725-6; " The Complaint j 
or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality," in eight parts, 1 742-3 ; the 
"Centaur not Fabulous," in 1755 ; and his last work, "Resignation," in two parts, 
in 1762. He was appointed Clerk of the Closet to the Princess Dowager of Wales 
in 1 761, and he died April 12, 1765, at Welwyn, Herts, to which living he had 
been presented in 1730. A life of Young was prefixed to an edition of his works 
published in 1802; another, by the Rev. J. Mitford, appeared in 1834; and 
another, by J. Doran, in 185 1.] 

Indulgent God ! oh how shall mortal raise 
His soul to due returns of grateful praise. 
For bounty so profuse to human kind. 
Thy wondrous gift of an eternal mind ? 
Shall I, who some few years ago, was less 
Than worm, or mite, or shadow can express — • 
Was Nothing 3 shall I live, when every fire 
And every star shall languish and expire ? 
When earth's no more, shall I survive above. 
And through the radiant files of angels move ? 
Or, as before the throne of God I stand. 
See new worlds rolling from His spacious hand. 
Where our adventures shall perhaps be taught. 
As we now tell how Michael sung or fought ? 
All that has being in full concert join. 
And celebrate the depths of Love Divine! 
But oh ! before this blissful state, before 
Th' aspiring soul this wondrous height can soar. 
The judge, descending, thunders from afar. 
And all mankind is summoned to the Bar. 
This mighty scene I next presume to draw : 
Attend, great Anna, with religious awe. 
Expect not here the known successful arts 
To win attention, and command our hearts 5 
Fiction, be far away ; let no machine 
Descending here, no fabled God, be seen j 
Behold the God of Gods indeed descend. 
And worlds unnumbered his approach attend ! 
Lo ! the wide theatre, whose ample space 
Must entertain the whole of human race. 
At heaven's all-powerful edict is prepared. 
And fenced around with an immortal guard. 
Tribes, provinces, dominions, worlds, o'erflow 
The mighty plain, and deluge all below : 



Bickersteth.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 353 

And every age, and nation, pours along; 
Nimrod and Bourbon mingle in the throng : 
Adam salutes his youngest son ; no sign 
Of all those ages, which their births disjoin. 

How empty learning, and how vain is art. 
But as it mends the life, and guides the heart ? 
What volumes have been swelled, what time been spent. 
To fix a hero's birthday, or descent ? 
What joy must it now yield, what rapture raise. 
To see tlie glorious race of antient days ? 
To greet those worthies, who perhaps have stood 
Illustrious on record before the flood ? 
Alas ! a nearer care your soul demands, 
Ca&sar unnoted in your presence stands. 
How vast the concourse ! not in number more 
The waves that break on the resounding shore. 
The leaves that tremble in the shady grove. 
The lamps that gild the spangled vaults above : 
Those overwhelming armies, whose command 
Said to one empire. Fall; another Stand: 
Whose rear lay wrapt in night, while breaking dawn 
Roused the broad front, and called the battle on : 

Great Xerxes' world in arms, proud Cannes' s field. 
Where Carthage taught victorious Rome to yield, 
(Another blow had broke the fates' decree. 
And earth had wanted her fourth monarchy) 
Immortal Blenheim., famed Ra.millias host. 
They All are here, and here they All are lost : 
Their millions swell to be discerned in vain. 
Lost as a billow in th" unbounded main. 

The Last Day. 



147.— RESTORATION OF THE JEWS. 

[Rev. E. Bickersteth, 1786 — 1850. 

[Edward Bickersteth, born at Kirby Lonsdale, Westmoreland, March 19, 1786, 
commenced life as a solicitor, entered the Church in 18 15, and was sent by the 
Church Missionary Society, to re-organize their mission stations in Africa. Having 
accomplished this work, he was appointed secretary to the Church Missionary 
Society, and in 1830 exchanged this post for the living of Watton, Herts, where he 
laboured till his death, which occurred Feb. 24, 1850. The Rev. E. Bickersteth, 
who was a prominent member of the Evangelical section of the Church of England, 



354 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Bickersteth. 

published numerous sermons and other works. " Scripture Help, designed to 
assist in reading the Bible profitably," "The Christian Student," and " The Restora- 
tion of the Jews," are the best known. A collected edition of his works, in 
17 vols., appeared in 1853.] 

Immense have been the stones of offence laid in the way of the Jews, 
by ages of wrong and injury, insult and oppression, and more especially 
by ages of a degraded Christianity. Look only at the present state of 
the Christian world, wherever the Jews are scattered and dispersed. 

The churches on the Continent, with the exception of the com^ 
paratively small, though, blessed be God, increasing number of the 
faithful followers of Christ, have been described as divided into two 
great sects 5 one, baptized infidels, and the other, worshippers of 
images, all professing to be followers of Jesus, but not doing the 
things which he commands. And to this day the Jews are exposed to 
insult and oppression of varied kinds, and are suffering wrongs from 
Christians in name. They behold, in Roman Catholic countries, not 
Christianity in its simplicity, holiness, and loveliness, but a spurious 
profession, deformed with adored crucifixes and images, idolatry of 
created beings, and innumerable and most gross superstitions : or with 
ungodly lives of infidel and licentious men. How can they embrace 
such a Christianity, when they know that for similar sins the Jews 
endured their first captivity in Babylon, and their descendants have 
ever since been witnesses against these sins ? Nor are things better in 
the Greek and Eastern churches ; in which pictures are honoured, and 
ignorance, vice, and superstition, dishonour, most fearfully and exten- 
sively, the name of Christ. 

And do the Protestant churches present no stumbling-blocks to the 
Jews ? Alas ! how much must we sigh over our own churches j when 
they see, in the Reformed churches, infidelity and formality, ungodli- 
ness and worldliness, enmity and bitterness, strife and divisions, railing 
against and devouring each other ! Nor do I conceive that our too 
generally accredited system of spiritualizing the prophecies, taking 
all the promises to the Christian church, and leaving all the threaten- 
ings to the Jewish nation, has been a harmless perversion ; however 
justly spiritual Christians are entitled in Christ Jesus to all the promises 
of spiritual blessings, and unbelieving Jews have forfeited them while 
in unbelief: }et is there a rich reserve of blessing for the Jewish 
nation. Nor let us ever forget the apostle's advice,"^' not to boast 
against the branches that are broken oft'j not to be high-minded, but 
fear. What is past, we explain literally, and so must we what is to 
come. To tell the Jews that Zion and Jerusalem mean only the 

* Romans xi. 18 — 20. 



Stewart.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 355 

Gentile Church 5 and the land where their forefathers dwelt means 
only Heaven, is wrongfully to leave a stone of offence in their way. 

Oh ! when we look back on the dealings of professed Christians 
with the Jews, we might think that the directions which Christians 
had received from their divine Master had been, not to labour in- 
cessantly in preaching the gospel of peace to them, but " Despise the 
Jews ; mock them in every form ; inflict pains and cruelties upon 
them : leave everywhere stones of offence : make Christianity as hateful 
to them as possible." Thus have we, in our wickedness, dealt with 
them in the way of imposing penalties and sufferings, instead of in 
Christian love, unwearied patience, and Christ-like compassion, mourn- 
ing over them, and seeking to lead them to their only shepherd and 
Saviour. 

And can we think these wrongs leave no guilt on Cliristendom ? Is 
it in vain that God has said, '' I am jealous for Jerusalem and for Zion 
with a great jealousy. And I am very sore displeased with the heathen 
that are at ease : for I was but a little displeased, and they helped 
forward the affliction."* Most awful are the divine judgments to be 
inflicted on impenitent nations that have heretofore punished the Jews. 
" I will," says God, "feed them that oppress thee with their own fiesh ; 
and they shall be drunken with their own blood, as with sweet wine."t 
" I will undo all that afflict thee."t ''The Lord thy God will put all 
these curses upon thine enemies, and on them that hate thee, which 
persecuted thee."§ — Restoration of the Jews. Sermon preached in St. 
Clement Danes, London, May 8, 1834. — Isaiah Ixii. to — 12. 



148.— MEMORY IN DIFFERENT INDIVIDUALS. 

[DuGALD Stewart, 1753 — 1828. 
[DuGALD Stewart, born in Edinburgh, Nov. 22, 1753, was educated at the High 
School and University of his native city, and went in 1771 to the university of 
Glasgow. He took charge of the mathematical classes in the university of Edin- 
burgh in 1772, was appointed Professor of Mathematics June 14, 1775, and Pro- 
fessor of Moral Philosophy in 1785. The first volume of his first work, " Elements 
of the Philosophy of the Human Mind," appeared in March, 1792, the second 
volume in 1814, and the third volume in 1827. Mr. Stewart is the author of 
several other works, the best known being " Philosophical Essays," published in 1810 ; 
and " The Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers of Man," in 1828. He 
received the appointment of the writership to the Edinlin-gh Gazette in 1806, and 
he died at Edinburgh, June n, 1828. A memoir is given in Sir W. Hamilton's 
edition of his collected works, published 1854 — 58.] 

It is generally supposed, that of all our faculties. Memory is that 
which nature has bestowed in the most unequal degrees on different 



* Zech i. 14 and 15. f Isaiah xlix. 26. * Zcph. iii. 19. § Deut. xxx. 7, 

A A a 



356 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Stewart. 

individuals ; and it is far from being impossible that this opinion may 
be well founded. If, however, we consider that there is scarcely any 
man who has not memory sufficient to learn the use of language, and 
to learn to recognise, at the first glance, the appearances of an infinite 
number of familiar objects j besides acquiring such an acquaintance 
with the laws of nature, and the ordinary course of human affairs, as 
is necessary for directing his conduct in life, we shall be satisfied that 
the original disparities among men, in this respect, are by no means so 
immense as they seem to be at first view 3 and that much is to be 
ascribed to different habits of attention, and to a difference of selection 
imong the various events presented to their curiosity. 

It is worthy of remark, also, that those individuals who possess 
unusual powers of memory with respect to any one class of objects, 
are commonly as remarkably deficient in some of the other applica- 
tions of that faculty. I knew a person who, though completely 
ignorant of Latin, was able to repeat over thirty or forty lines of 
Virgil, after having heard them once read to him, — not indeed with 
perfect exactness, but with such a degree of resemblance, as (all cir- 
cumstances considered) was truly astonishing ; yet this person (who 
was in the condition of a servant) was singularly deficient in memory 
in all cases in which that faculty is of real practical utility. He was 
iiOted in every family in which he had been employed for habits of 
forge tfulness, and could scarcely deliver an ordinary message without 
committing some blunder. 

A similar observation, I can almost venture to say, will be found to 
apply to by far the greater number of those in whom this faculty 
seems to exhibit a preternatural or anomalous degree of force. The 
varieties of memory are indeed wonderful, but they ought not to be 
confounded with inequalities of memory. One man is distinguished 
by a power of recollecting names, and dates, and genealogies j a second, 
by the multiplicity of speculations, and of general conclusions treasured 
up in his intellect ; a third by the facility with which words and com- 
binations of words (the ipsissima verba of a speaker or of an author) 
seem to lay hold of his mindj a fourth by the quickness with which 
he seizes and appropriates the sense and meaning of an author, while 
the phraseology and style seem altogether to escape his notice ; a fifth, 
by his memory for poetry ; a sixth, by his memory for music ; a 
seventh, by his memory for architecture, statuary, and painting, and 
all the other objects of taste which are addressed to the eye. All 
these different powers seem miraculous to those wdio do not possess 
them ; and as they are apt to be supposed by superficial observers to 
be commonly united in the same individuals, they contribute much to 
encourage those exaggerated estimates concerning the original in- 



Stewart.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 357 

equalities among men in respect to this faculty, which I am now 
endeavouring to reduce to their first standard. 

As the great purpose to which this faculty is subservient, is to enable 
us to collect and to retain, for the future regulation of our cc»nduct, 
the results of our past experience, it is evident that the degree of per- 
fection which it attains in the case of ditferent persons nuist var\^j 
first, with the facility of making the original acquisition ; secondly, 
with the permanence of the acquisition 3 and tliirdly, with the quick- 
ness or readiness with which the individual is able, on particular 
occasions, to apply it to use. The qualities, therefore, of a good 
memory are, in the first place, to be susceptible ; secondly, to be 
retentive ; and thirdly, to be ready. 

It is but rarely that these three qualities are united in the same 
person. We often, indeed, meet with a nemory which is at once 
susceptible and ready ; but I doubt much if such memories be com- 
monly very retentive J for the same set of hi" bits which are favourable 
to the two first qualities are adverse to the third. Those individuals, 
for example, who with a view to conversation, make a constant busi- 
ness of informing themselves with respect to the popular topics of the 
day, or of turning over tlie ephemeral publications subservient to the 
amusement or to the politics of the times, are naturally led to cultivate 
a susceptil-Uity and readbicss of memory, but have no inducement to 
aim at that permanent retention of select ideas v.hich enables the scien- 
tific student to combine the most remote materials, and to concentrate 
at will, on a particular object, all the scattered lights of his experience, 
and of his reflections. Such men (as far as my observation has 
reached) seldom possess a familiar or correct acquaintance even with 
those classical remains of our own earlier writers, which have ceased 
to furnish topics of discourse to the circles of fashion. A stream of 
novelties is perpetually passing through their minds, and the faint im- 
pressions which it leaves soon vanish to make way for others — like the 
traces which the ebbing tide leaves upon the sand. Nor is this all. In 
proportion as the associating principles which lay the foundation of 
susceptibility and readiness predominate in the memory, those which 
form the basis of our more solid and lasting acquisitions may be ex- 
pected to be weakened, as a natural consequence of the general laws 
of our intellectual frame. — Elements of the Philosophy of the Human 
Mind, ch. vi. § 2. 



3S^ THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Nicholls. 



149.— LOWOOD SCHOOL. 

[Mrs. Nicholls, 1816 — 1855. 
[Charlotte Bronte, daughter of a clergyman, was born at Thornton, in the West 
Riding of Yorkshire, April 21, 1816. Her father removed to Haworth, in the same 
county in 182 1, and his wife died soon after, leaving him with six young children, 
two of whom died at an early age. Charlotte was sent to a school at Cowan Bridge, 
described in her novel, "Jane Eyre," in 1824, was removed to another school at 
Roe Head in 183 1, and went to a pensionnat at Brussels in 1842. On her return 
home in 1844, her father's sight began to fail. Charlotte and her sisters, Emily 
Jane,* and Anne,t under the noms de plume of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, pub- 
lished a volume of poems in 1846. "Jane Eyre," a novel rejected by many pub- 
lishers, was accepted by Messrs. Smith and Elder, who brought it out in 1847. 
This work established her reputation. " Shirley" appeared in 1849, ^^^^ " Villette" 
in 1852. In the meantime her two surviving sisters and only brother had been cut 
off and she was left alone with her aged father, of whose curate, the Rev. A. Nicholls, 
she became the wife in 1854. Their union was not of long duration, for this gifted 
woman fell a victim to the disease which had carried off the rest of the family, March 
31, 1855. Her life by Mrs. Gaskell,J appeared in 1857, ^"^^ ^^ unfinished novel in 
the " Cornhill Magazine" for i860.] 

Business now began: the day's Collect was repeated, then certain 
texts of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted 
reading of chapters in the Bible which lasted an hour. By the time 
that exercise was terminated, day had fully dawned. The indefati- 
gable bell now sounded for the fourth time : the classes were mar- 
shalled and marched into another room to breakfast : how glad I was 
to behold a prospect of getting something to eat ! I was now nearly 
sick from inanition, having taken so little the day before. 

The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room ; on two long 
tables smoked basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, 
sent forth an odour far from inviting. I saw an universal manifesta- 
tion of discontent when the fumes of the repast met the nostrils of 
those destined to swallow it : from the van of the procession, the tall 
girls of the first class, rose the whispered words : — " Disgusting ! the 
porridge is burnt again !" " Silence!" ejaculated a voice 3 not that of 
Miss Miller, but of one of the upper teachers, a little and dark per- 
sonage, smartly dressed but of somewhat morose aspect, who installed 
herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady presided at 
the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the night before ; 
she was not visible : Miss Miller occupied the foot of the table where 
I sat, and a strange foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, 
as I afterwards found, took the corresponding seat at the other board. 



* Born in 18 18, died Dec. 19, 1848. f Born in 1820, died May 28, 1849. 

X Died suddenly at Alton, Nov. 19, 1865. 



XichoUs.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 359 

A long grace was said and a hymn sung ; then the servant brought in 
some tea tor the teachers and the meal began. 

Ravenous, and now veiy faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my 
portion without thinking of its taste ; but the first edge of hunger 
blunted, I perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess : burnt por- 
ridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes j famine itself soon sickens 
over it- The spoons were moved slowlj : I saw each girl taste her food 
and tiy to swallow it ; but in most cases the eiibrt was soon rehnquished. 
Breakfast was over and none had breakfasted. Thanks being returned 
for what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refectory 
was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and 
in passing the tables [ saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and 
taste it ; she looked at the others j all their countenances expressed 
displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered : — " Abomi- 
nable stuif ! How shameful 1" 

A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again begun, during 
which the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult j for that space of time 
it seemed to be permitted to talk loud and more freelj, and they used 
their privilege. The whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which 
one and all abused roundly. Poor things ! it was the sole consolation 
they had. -Nliss ^Miller was now the only teacher in the room : a 
group of great girls standing about her, spoke with serious and sullen 
gestures. I heard the name of jNIr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some 
lips 3 at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she 
made no great effort to check the general wrath : doubtless she 
shared in it. 

A clock in the schoolroom struck nine 5 Miss Miller left her circle, 
and standing in the middle of the room cried : — " Silence 3 to your 
seats !" 

Discipline prevailed : in five minutes the confused throng was 
resolved into order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour 
of tongues. The upper teachers now pimctually resumed their posts 3 
but still, all seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of 
the room the eighty girls sat motionless and erect : a quaint assem- 
blage they appeared, all with plain locks combed from tlieir taces, not 
a curl visible 3 in brown dresses, made high and surrounded by a 
narrow tucker about the throat, with litde pockets of holland (shaped 
something hke a Highlander's purse), tied in front of their frocks, and 
destined to serve the purpose of a work-bag : all, too, wearing woollen 
stockings, and country-made shoes fastened with brass buckles. Above 
twenty of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather 
young women • it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to 
the prettiest. — Jane Eyre, chap. v. 



36o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Whiteside. 

150.— THE FESTIVAL OF THE BAMBINO. 

[Whiteside, 1806. 

[James Whiteside, born in the county of Wicklow in 1806, educated at Trinity 
College, Dublin, was called to the Irish bar in 1830. In 1843 he was one of the 
counsel chosen to defend Daniel O'Connell, and in 1848 acted in the same capacity 
for Mr. Smith O'Brien. In 1851 he was returned for Enniskillen, which borough he 
represented until 1859, when he was elected for the University of Dublin. Mr. White- 
side acted as Solicitor-General for Ireland in Lord Derby's first administration in 1852, 
vas appointed Attorney-General for Ireland in Lord Derby's second administra- 
tion in 1858, when he was made a privy councillor for Ireland, and was made Chief 
Justice for Ireland in July, 1866. His "Italy in the Nineteenth Century" appeared in 
1848, and "Vicissitudes of the Eternal City" in 1849.] 

We descend slowly to the piazza before the Capitol and find it crowded 
wdth people. Peasants from the Campagna are loitering on the flight 
of steps parallel to those already described, and leading to the church 
of S. Maria d'Ara Cceli, built on the site of the celebrated temple of 
the Capitoline Jove. What means this excitement ? It is the festival 
of the Be?iedizio7ie del Bamhino. I am reminded of the history of the 
Bambino, which shortly before had been given me by an Italian lady, 
and which I will here set down in her words : — " Many centuries ago 
a Franciscan pilgrim came to the convent of the Ara Coeli and asked 
for shelter. This was afforded, and on the departure of the pilgrim 
he left behind him a small box which lay for a year unnoticed. At 
the expiration of that time, a monk passing near the chamber where the 
box lay beheld a great and unusual light. He alarmed the brethren by 
the intelligence that the convent was on fire. They rushed into the 
apartment and found no fire, but a marvellous and brilliant lustre shining 
round the long-forgotten box. It was opened and there was disco- 
vered a Bambino, being no other than a figure of the infant Saviour, 
wdiich had been carved by the Franciscan out of the wood of a pecu- 
liar kind of tree that grew on the Mount of Olives, and painted by 
St. Luke himself, who was distinguished in that art." 

Here I ventured to suggest that the Franciscan order of monks did 
not exist in the time of St. Luke. The Signora, nothing disconcerted, 
thought they did, and proceeded : 

*'The Bambino was preserved and adorned, but at first had not the 
repute it now possesses. A princess, however, borrowed it from the 
convent, and pleased with the image determined to keep it ; accord- 
ingly, in execution of her pious fraud, she procured another image, 
and dressed it up so exactly like the true Bambino that the good 
monks were deceived, believing that they had got back their own pre- 
cious deposit, whereas in fact the fal,->e image had been palmed upon 
them. They laid it up carefully and thought no more about the 
matter, till one day when the monks were all at mass they heard the 



Whiteside.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 361 

great bell ring. This surprised them. They looked about and saw 
that all the bretliren were present. The bell still tolled. They rushed 
up to the belfry, and lo ! they found tlie veritable Bambino right under 
the tongue of the bell. Amazed, they brought away the precious 
relic, and then inquired from the princess to whom they had lent it, 
what she had done. She, terrified, confessed the imposition, and 
selling all her jewels bestowed the produce upon the miraculous Bam- 
bino, which transported itself from the house of the lady to the belfry of 
the convent, and rano- the o-reat bell to arouse the monks. From that 
rime the Bambino has been the consolation of Rome. AVhen good 
Christians are dying they send for it. A chosen party of monks, 
dressed in tlie habit of their order (a carriage being provided for the 
sacred image, which is always taken abroad locked in a case), proceed 
to the bed of tlie sick man, and then touch his forehead with the head 
of the Bambino. This was done (said the Signora) when my dear 
father was dying, and he departed this life in peace." 

The above narrative prepared us for the spectacle we were about to 
witness. We ascended the hundred and twenty-four marble steps 
facing the Capitol, which are said to have belonged to the Temple of 
Venus at Rome, and which are worn by the knees of pilgrims and 
penitents. Now they were crowded by peasants f m the Campagna, 
dressed in their picturesque costume. We entered the church ; to the 
left was the chapel, where the scene of the Nativity was acted by 
figures as large as life. It was the strangest sight I ever beheld. The 
Bambino, an image of the infant Jesus, was exposed in front of the 
stage, with precious stones shining on its wooden forehead. All the 
other figures were placed suitably to their characters throughout the 
long stage, the church being dark, the hour four. There was a dim light, 
showing clearly however the spectacle to the eyes of the devout wor- 
shippers. A monk stood on guard over the Bambino, below the stage, 
and received the contributions of the faithful, — an important part of 
this business. Seats were arranged on each side of the centre aisle, a 
space wide enough for a procession being reserved between. The altar 
at the upper end of the church and the ancient columns were deco- 
rated as for a festa. The Franciscan monks, priests, and friars were 
chanting. There was a guard in attendance in military costume and 
with bayonets fixed. 

After some time there was a great bustle near the altar, and a grand 
procession was formed, consisting of priests, an immense train of 
monks, incense burners, and a fiag-bearer carrying a long narrow 
banner, on which was depicted a monk of the BVanciscan order, with 
the image of a Bambino at his feet. This represented, I believe, the 
finding of the very image (now to be exhibited) in a miraculous 
manner. As the procession moved on I followed in the train. What 



362 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Whiteside. 

was my amazement when a band close behind the priests struck up a 
lively air, which sounded to my ears not unlike a polka, and played 
till the priests reached the spot before described, where the old monk 
stood on guard before the Bambino. Here there was a halt ; a priest 
in rich attire, with gloves on, stepped forward. A way was made for 
him to the foot of the little stage, and he saluted the Bambino reve- 
rentially. Then it was we 1 incensed. The priest next took the 
Bambino from the arms of the virgin, and bringing it out into the 
church, held it up amidst a general obeisance, a chant, and flourish of 
music. I was close to the image, and thought it badly carved and 
ugly, although covered with jewels and necklaces of precious stones. 
The procession moved on to the door of the church, and out to the 
top of the huge flight of steps. There it remained a few minutes on 
the platform, music playing as before. Ihe peasants, who were 
loitering about, became instantly attentive and devout, gazed at the 
Bambino with reverence, accepted the benediction of the priests, and 
departed. The procession then crossing the platform outside, entered the 
church by another door, and passed up the opposite aisle to the altar, 
where the Bambino was placed in a prominent position and a reli- 
gious service performed. The guards never for a moment deserted 
the image. 

Gibbon* informs us that it was here, on the i^th of October, 1764, 
as he sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the bare- 
footed friars were singing vespers, that he first conceived the idea of 
writing the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Supposing the 
historian to have witnessed such an exhibition as I have described, it 
might not be difficult to guess what effect it would produce on a mind 
inclined to scepticism. He might possibly contrast the ignorant 
monks he beheld with Cicero and Pliny ; and confounding ceremonies 
with creeds, visit his contempt unphilosophically on the Christian reli- 
gion. I'here cannot be a greater mistake than the assertion that such 
exhibitions do no harm. When the educated followers of the Italian 
church discourse upon ceremonies such as here described, and can 
give no more valid reason for their continuance than that they do vo 
harm., they admit they are indefensible. Those who add to the sim- 
plicity of truth are to be censured no less than those who take away 
from its integrity 5 and I must frankly confess it would require a 
strong exercise of faith to discover in such a ceremony as the bene- 
diction of the Bambino, any vestige of the spiritual religion of the 
Gospel. — Jta/y in the Nintteenlh Century, (new edition, abridged and 
revised,) chap, xxviii. 



♦ Sec page 28. 



f 



Ross.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 363 



151.— SAILING THROUGH THE ICE. 

[Sir John Ross, 1777 — 1856. 
[John Ross, born June 24, 1777, at Balsarroch, in Wigtownshire, Scotland, entered 
the na\y in 1786 as a volunteer, and was appointed Lieutenant in 1805. In com- 
mand of the Isabella, he set out to discover the north-west passage Jan. 15, 18 18, 
accompanied by the Alexander, under Lieut. Parry. He arrived in the Thames Dec. 
14, 1818. He sailed again May 24, 1829, in the victory, and was frozen up in the 
Gulf of Boothia for more than a year. In April, 1832, the ship was abandoned, and 
the officers and crew travelled northwards in sledges tiU Aug. 26, 1833, when they 
were enabled to set sail in boats, and were picked up by the Isal-ella that Ross had 
previously commanded. In Sept. 1833, ^^ arrived in England, and was knighted in 
1834. Sir John Ross, in 1850, fitted out an expedition at his own expense, in order 
to discover Sir John Franklin. He obtained the rank of Admiral in 1851, and died 
Aug. 30, 1856. His "Voyage of Discover)-, for the Purpose of exploring Baffin's 
Bay, and inquiring into the probability of a North- West Passage," appeared in 
1819; a treatise on Steam Navigation in 1828; and his "Narrative of a Second 
Voyage in search of a North-West Passage in 1829 — ^^," in 1835.] 

The wind having increased, we got considerably ahead of the 
Alexander, and explored a spacious bay to the south of Cape Cock- 
burn, w^hich I named Banks' Bay, after the Right Honourable Baronet 
and President of the Royal Society. 

This bay, like the last, was occupied by ice, and surrounded by a 
continuation of the mountains which have been already mentioned. 
Here I was obliged to shorten sail for the Aleiander, the weather 
becoming thick j and we lost sight of the land, having made twenty- 
five miles southing. When the Alexander came up we again made 
sail, and having proceeded about twelve miles further, which I calcu- 
lated would bring me as far south as I had distinctly seen the land and 
determined its situation, I shortened sail -, and, under the topsails, 
endeavoured to maintain our position, which I judged to be the most 
favourable one for pushing on in any direction that circumstances 
might point out. Our progress which, .during the last twenty-four hours, 
Mas thirty-six miles in distance, was accomplished with considerable 
dimculty, from the innumerable masses of ice with which we were 
surrounded. Sometimes we were obliged to bear up, and, by giving 
the ship fresh way through the water, endeavour to separate the masses 
of ice which lay in streams across our course. In this we occasionally 
succeeded, and the Isabella being larger and a better sailer than the 
Alexander, consequently her momentum more powerful, she had, as 
in the whole of our progress tlirough the ice, a decided advantage in a 
breeze. But this operation often failed, and we were then obliged to 
have recourse to warping hawsers, in order to heave the ship through j 
or extricate her from the situation into which she had been thrown • at 
other times we were obliged to make several tacks to weather certain 
large masses, or to enable us to fetch the most likely place to be 
penetrated. 



364 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK ^Bjireli. 

In all these manoeuvres, the greatest care is : - t :: . ^.e 

tongues^ or projections of tlie ice underwater, v- -. _.-- ::--._ . .t- 
depth of six or eight feet. For the purp5se of obserfing i r..: -.■:- 
perienced seamen are placed on each bow, who, on discoTer ^ ..e 
danger by the green appearance of the water, <:all out. Star ; r 

Port, as the occasion may require, thereby directing the hplr :: 

steer clear of it. Although ihe leading ship has in these ca—- - :vr 
disadvantages In forcing through the ice, being the first to ::r •: ::. 
and thereby make a passage for the next, yet the ship which : ... s 
has difficulties, which more than balance the aJv^antage c: - -_" 
through a breach already madej for, if her leader passes :: 

pieces of ice with considerable velocity, through anjnarrow !, 

some of these pieces immediately receive a tendency towards :. t - - .. : e 
the ship had occupied^ in order to £11 up where the water 1.: 
displaced. They therefore rush towards the ship's wake j the;: :: 

being also often accelerated by the concussion of the ship aga : r 
particular piece, which produces a re-action in the rest. Hr. ,- -. 
generally happens, that when the ship astern arrive* .: ■_ r 
entrance of the channel, she has mone difficulties to encoui.-r: , :: 
her leader, from the accumulation of pieces in the passage. T : - 
not uncommon for the obstruction to be so great as to render lorciDg 
through totally impracticable ; this often happened to the Alexander, 
but it only ser\ ed to redouble the zeal and perseverance of her com- 
mander, officers, and crew, who were unremitting in their labours, to 
keep up with the Isabella. The unavoidable detention arising from 
these circumstances, and the inferiority of that ship in sailing, were 
not more than sufficient to give me an opportunity of exploring the 
coast as I passed it, by enabling me, without lo^ of time, to stand in 
w henever it w as clear, and make the necessary observations. — Voyage 
of Discovery, cliap. x. Aug. 27, 1818. 



152— HOW THE VICTORY OF BLENHEIM WAS CELEBRATED. 

[BCDGELL, 1685 1736. 

[Eustace Budgeli, bom at St. Thomas, near Exeter, in 1685, was educated at 
Oxford, and entered the Inner Temple. Instead of stodying for die law, he ^iplied 
himself to literature, wrote for the Toiler, and oontribnted to the Spectattnr the 
papers marked X, and to the Guardwa those marlkfd with an asterisk. He was 
undcr-SBcretaiy to Addison, and having filled various ^^XMntmenls, was made 
Accountant and Comptroller-General for Ireland in 1717. He lost a laigc sum 
of money by the South Sea scheme. In 1733 he commenced a weekly periodical 
called the Bee. It did not, however, prove successful, and though called to the bar, 
Budgell became very much reduced in nn-nm<atawinev^ Having r" g»grd a boat at 



3^ 



Men of 



part be " .: - - :,-"-: r- r :." rz :z::_. ;: ^.;-:- ;/^ 1 ; .: :o 

inaplov _ t r r _ .- :^ r r r J _iiice 

OT Genr T _ 7 _ :^ ~ v^ ^ -calmiT 

lejJied. r.::: ..r -. :. :: ..;: /. - 1"-:-//^ h'ld 

said, 2Z1 T. 7 : .:: ' r — i": •.:;.:- ^_7 ;-;;.,7- - :ae 

fnlure : '--^ : . 7- 7 ..: . ; 7 .-7 : :. . - 7_: ' ■ : /.; -e. 



tbeEx es, 

added, Tim: 1 _ : _ i?s 

Sabject, hn ^ !> ; 

bat entreat 7 e- 
thin?^ moire .„ :. .:. i^^c l,„„.. 

ing Thmg^- .icetm a manner, .: _ le 

utmost spirk .i.^^ .. . .igement to begin th. „ .i jae ^icer- 

waids publkhed, and entitled. The Campaig. n equal to the 

action it celebrates ; and in which that Prescmce or Mind, for which 
the late Duke of Mailbonyogfa was so remarkable in a Day o£ Battle 



366 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Prior. 

is illustrated by a nobler simile than any to be found in Homer or 
Virgil. 

The Lord Treasurer kept the promise he had made by Mr. Boyle ; 
and Mr. Addison, soon after the Publication of his Poem, was preferred 
to a considerable Post. — Memoirs of the Boyles. 



153. — THE GARLAND. 

[Prior, 1664 — 1721. 
[Matthew Prior, born at Wimborne, in Dorsetshire, July 21, 1664, was educated 
at Westminster, and St. John's College, Cambridge, where he wrote his first poem, 
" The Deity." " The Country Mouse and the City Mouse," written in conjunction 
with Mr. Montague, in ridicule of Dryden's " Hind and Panther," appeared in 1687. 
Prior was sent as secretary to the Congress at the Hague, in 1691, and to that of Rys- 
wick in 1697, and of Paris in 1698. He was returned member for East Grinstead in 
1 701 ; was employed in the negotiations for peace at Utrecht, in 171 1 j and became 
ambassador at Paris in August, 1713. On the fall of the Harley Administration in 
1 7 14, he was dismissed. He suffered various indignities, and Sir Robert Walpole 
moved his impeachment. Prior, who was released after a short imprisonment, died 
at Wimpole, the seat of the Earl of Oxford, Sept. 18, 1721, and was buried in West- 
minster Abbey. Seven collected editions of his works, with Memoir, have been 
published. Thackeray classes his writing amongst " the easiest, the richest, the 
most charmingly humorous of English lyrical poems," Dr. Johnson (*' Lives of the 
Poets") remarks : " Prior has written with great variety, and his variety has made 
him popular. He has tried all styles, from the grotesque to the solemn, and has not 
so failed in any as to incur derision or disgrace. His works may be distinctly con- 
sidered as comprising Tales, Love-verses, Occasional Poems, ' Alma' and 'Solomon.'"] 

The pride of every grove I chose. 

The violet sweet, and lily fair, 
The dappled pink, and blushing rose. 

To deck my charming Cloe's hair. 

At morn the nymph vouchsaft to place 

Upon her brow the various wreath ; 
The flowers less blooming than her face, 

The scent less fragrant than her breath. 

The flowers she wore along the day : 
And every nymph and shepherd said, 

That in her hair they looked more gay. 
Than glowing in their native bed. 

Undrest at evening when she found 
Their odours lost, their colours passed j 

She changed her look, and on the ground 
Her garland and her eye she cast. 



Pusey.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 367 

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear. 

As any Muse's tongue could speak. 
When from its lid a pearly tear 

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 

Dissembling what I knew too well. 

My love, my life, said I, explain 
This change of humour : pry'thee tell : 

That falling tear — what does it mean ? 

She sighed ; she smiled : and to the flowers . 

Pointing, the lovely moralist said : 
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours. 

See yonder, what a change is made. 

Ah me ! the blooming pride of May, 

And that of beauty are but one : 
At morn both flourished bright and gay. 

Both fade at evening, pale and gone. 

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung 5 
The amorous youth around her bowed 5 

At night her fatal knell was rung : 
I saw, and kissed her in her shroud. 

Such as she is, who died to-day. 

Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow ; 
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display 

The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow. 

Poetical IForks. 



154.— GOD CALLETH THEE. 

[Dr. Pusey, 1800. 

[Edward Bouverie, son of the late Hon. Philip Bouverie, who assumed the name 
of Pusey by royal licence, was born in i8co. He was educated at Christ Church, 
Oxford, and became Fellow of Oriel College. In 1828 he was appointed Regius 
Professor of Hebrew in the University of Oxford, and Canon of Christ Church. He 
was one of the earnest contributors to the "Tracts for the Times," and » section of 
the High Church party received the name of Puseyites. On account of a sermon on 
the Eucharist, he was suspended from preaching before the University in 1843. I^""- 
Pusey is the author of a variety of pamphlets and sermons. His " Parochial Sermons, 
1848 — 53" appeared in 1857, "The Councils of the Church from the Council of 
Jerusalem to that of Constantinople, a.d. 381," in 1857, and "The Church of 



368 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pusey. 

England a Portion of Christ's one Holy Catholic Church, and a Means of Restoring 
Visible Unity, An Eirenicon, in a letter to the Author of 'The Christian Year,'" 
in 1865.] 

The world is one great mirror. As we are who look into it or on it, 
so is it to us. It gives us back ourselves, it speaks to us the language 
of our own hearts. Such as we are, so doth it speak to us of pleasure, 
gain, honour, vanity, worldly happiness, or of everlasting rest and 
peace, out of itself, in God. Our inmost self is the key to all. Our 
ruling thought or passion, the thought or love, that is, which has the 
mastery of us, and governs us, and occupies our soul, is touched by 
everything around us. In grief, all things alike, the most joyous or 
the most sorrowful, suggest to the mourner thoughts of grief 3 yea, 
joyous sounds and sights speak mostly, most heavily to it of its own 
heaviness, or of the absence of the lost object of its love. Self love 
sees everything as it bears on self 3 love of pleasure or of gain looks 
on all, as it may minister to its pleasure or gain, or to envy those which 
have what it has not. The heart where God dwelleth, is by all things 
called anew to God ; His Blessed Presence draws it by Its Sweetness : 
or His seeming absence by the very void, may absorb it yet more, by 
the very vehemence of longing into Himself. 

It matters not what things are. Things like or things unlike ; things 
Divine or things deviHsh 5 the obedience, order, growth, harmony, 
beauty of nature, or the disobedience, disorder, decay, discord of men, 
and the loathsomeness of sin j sounds of harmony, which echo, as it 
were, the Choirs of Heaven, or sounds of discord, hatred, blasphemy, 
bad words uttered by the tongue, which "is set on fire of hell 3" 
things good, by their loveliness, or things bad, by their dreadfulness, 
draw the soul upward to God, or drive it onward, lest, like them, it 
lose Him. 

Everything preaches Eternity to the awakened soul. All love of 
gain it sees, preaches of Him, the True Riches ; all disquiet " about 
many things," of Him, our Only Rest, all seeking after pleasure, q/ 
Him, the Ever-flowing Torrent of Pleasure ; all sickness of soul and 
body, of Him, our soul's Only Health j all things passing, of Him, 
Who Alone abideth. Perhaps no place may more preach to the soul 
the vanity of all things beneath the sun, and the Verity of Him, the 
Eternal Verity, Whose and of Whom, are all things, as the vast soli- 
tude of this great, crowded, tumultuous city, ''full of stirs," where 
*' all thiijgs are full of labour j man cannot utter it -, the eye is not 
satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing 3" where well- 
nigh all countenances or motions are full of eagerness, anxiety; all 
bent on something, seeking, but finding not, because they are seeking 
all things out of God ; all but Himself except when, here and there. 



Whately.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 369 



they at last become very emptiness, because they know no more what 
to seek or find, but have lost themselves. 

But, chiefly, we know. Brethren, in our inmost selves, that whether 
we have obeyed the Call, first or last, or, if any are even yet disobeying 
it or hearing it listlessly, obeying it for awhile in solemn seasons, and 
then forgetting it, or thinking they obey it when untempted, and then 
anon, when the temptation comes, ever anew disobeying, we know 
that we have been called manifoldly, perhaps our whole lives through. 
All perhaps can recollect when, in their childhood, some Sermon or deep 
Scripture words touched them, or some grave look or word of parents ; 
or they felt ill at ease, or their soul yearned for something better than 
this world's poor fleeting vanities ; or they felt that within them, not 
made for this world, which could not rest in it, but soared up and up, 
as though it would find Him from Whom it came. Whose it is ; or 
they were affrighted within themselves, at thoughts of Judgment ; or 
they were inwardly bidden not to put off turning to God with their 
whole heart. God adapts His Calls to each several soul. He calleth 
gently or in Awe ; in Love or in some form of displeasure ; quickening or 
checking us 5 within or without, directly or indirectly, in the secret 
chambers of the heart or " in the chief place of concourse," " in the 
openings of the gates," **^in the city," ''^ Wisdom," that is Himself^ 
"uttereth Her Words," "How long, ye simple ones, will ye love 
simphcity, and the scorners dehght in their scorning, and fools hate 
knowledge ? Turn you at My Reproof j behold, I will pour out My 
Spirit unto you, I will make known My Words unto you," (Prov. i. 21-3.) 
Ail things stand at His Command 3 all hearts are in His Hand, Who 
made them, and for Whom He made them j all things may be the 
channels of His Holy Inspirations ; all times may be seasons of His 
Grace ; all words may convey His Voice to the soul. As " all things 
work together for good to them that love " (Rom. viii. 28) Him, so 
may and do all things call us to love Him. All things have, in turn, 
called to our souls ; all nature, the world, grace or sin, shame at our 
folly and our very misery, have repeated His Words in our ears, " Why 
stand ye all the day idle ?" — Sermons during the Season ^rom Advent 
to Whitsuntide. No. viii. : Matthew xx. 6 — 7. 



155.— VERBAL QUESTIONS MISTAKEN FOR REAL. 

[Abp. Whately, 1787 — 1863. 
[Richard Whately, born in Cavendish Square, London, Feb. i, 1787, was educated 
at Oriel College, Oxford, and obtained a fellowship in 181 1. He was ap- 
pointed Bampton Lecturer in 1822, President of St. Alban's Hall in 1825, was 
made Archbishop of Dublin in 1835, ^"d died Oct. 8, 1863. Dr. Whately, who 
was a most prolific writer, is best known by his " Historic Doubts relative to Napo- 

B B 



37© THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Whately. 

leon," published in 1819; his Essays, of which the first series appeared in 1825, the 
second in 1828, and the third in 1830; and his Treatises on Logic, Rhetoric, and 
Political Economy. This indefatigable writer published a number of charges, 
sermons, lectures, and treatises on various subjects.] 

It is by no means to be supposed that all Verbal Questions are trifling 
and frivolous. It is often of the highest importance to settle correctly 
the meaning of a word, either according to ordinary use, or according 
to the meaning of any particular writer or class of men. But when 
Verbal Questions are mistaken for Real, much confusion of thought 
and unprofitable wrangling, — what is usually designated as Logo- 
machy, — will be generally the result. Nor is it always so easy 
and simple a task, as might at first sight appear, to distinguish them 
from each other. For, sev^eral objects to which one common name 
is applied, will often have many points of difference ; and yet tliat 
name may perhaps be applied to them all [univocally] in the same 
sense, and may be fairly regarded as the Genus they come under, if it 
appear that they all agree in what is designated by that name, and that 
the differences between them are in points not essential to the character 
of that genus. A cow and a horse differ in many respects, but agree 
in all that is implied by the term *"' quadruped," which is therefore 
applicable to both in the same sense. So also the houses of the 
ancients differed in many respects from ours, and their sbips still more; 
yet no one would contend that the terms " house" and " ship," as 
applied to both, are ambiguous, or that oIkoq might not fairly be ren- 
dered house, and vavQ ship ; because the essential characteristic of a 
house is, not its being of this or that form or materials, but its being 
a dwelling for men ; these therefore would be called two different kinds 
of houses, and consequently the term '' house" would be applied to each, 
without any equivocation, [univocally] in the same sense : and so 
in the other instances. 

On the other hand, two or more things may bear the same 
name, and may also have a resemblance in many points, nay, and 
may from that resemblance have come to bear the same name, and 
yet if the circumstance which is essential to each be wanting in 
the other, the term may be pronounced ambiguous. E.G. The word 
" Plantain" is the name of a common herb in Europe, and of an 
Indian fruit-tree: both are vegetables; yet the term is ambiguous, 
because it does not denote them so far forth as they agree. 

Again, the word "Priest" is applied to the Ministers of the Jewish 
and of the Pagan religions, and also to those of the Christian j and 
doubtless the term has been so transferred in consequence of their 
being both ministers (in some sort) of religion. Nor would every 
difference that might be found between the Priests of different 
religions constitute the term ambiguous, provided such dili'erences 



b 



Brooks.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 371 

were non-essential to the idea suggested by the word Priest ; as e.g., 
the Jewish Priest served the true God, and the Pagan, false Gods 5 
this is a most important difference, but does not constitute the term 
ambiguous, because neither of these circumstances is implied and 
suggested by the term 'lepevQ-, which accordingly was applied both 
to Jewish and Pagan Priests. But the term 'lepzvQ does seem to have 
implied the office of offering sacrifice, — atoning for the sins of the 
people^ — and acting as mediator between Man and the object of his 
worship. And accordingly that term is never applied to any one 
under the Christian system, except to the ONE great Mediator. 
The Christian ministers not having that office which was implied 
as essential in the term 'lepEvg, [sacerdos] were never called by 
that name, but by that of TrpeajSvrepoQ. It may be concluded, 
therefore, that the term Priest is ambiguous, as corresponding to 
the terms 'lepevg and rrpea-l^vTepog respectively, notwithstanding that 
there are points in which these two agree. These therefore should be 
reckoned, not two different kinds of Priests, but Priests in two different 
senses; since (to adopt the phraseology of Aristotle) the definition of 
them, so far forth as they are Priests, would be different. 

* -jt * -x- -x- -je- * 

It is evidently of much importance to keep in mind the above 
distinctions, in order to avoid, on the one hand, stigmatizing, as Verbal 
controversies, what in reality are not such, merely because the Question 
turns (as every question must) on the applicability of a certain Pre- 
dicate to a certain Subject -, or, on the other hand, falling into the 
opposite error of mistaking words for things, and judging of men's 
agreement or disagreement in opinion in every case, merely from their 
agreement or disagreement in the terms employed. — Elements of Logic, 
Book iv. chap. iv. § 2. 

156.— ARTHUR LYGON. 

[Shirley Brooks, 1816. 
[Charles Shirley Brooks, born in 1816, studied for the bar, and distinguished 
himself in an examination before the Incorporated Law Society. He is the author of 
several dramas, has contributed largely to periodical literature, and was one of the 
earliest writers for Punch. His best-known novels are " Aspen Court," published in 
J(855, "The Gordian Knot," in 1858, and "The Silver Cord," which appeared \u 
Once a Week in 1861-2.] 

*' Four," remarked St. Mary of the Strand, successor to the tall May- 
pole that once overlooked what is now the pleasantest, and handsomest, 
and most English street in London. 

The vibration of the Saint's voice had by no means ceased from out 
of the ears of the passers-by, when, with an honourable promptitude. 

B B 2 



372 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Brooks. 

and a delicate anxiety not to put the country under the obligation of 
receiving more service than she had bargained for, groups of gentle- 
men of all ages and sizes came pouring out at the gate of Somerset 
House. One might have thought that they had been listening for the 
summons, and had prepared themselves to obey it on the instant. In 
the old days, that church did not collect the saints of Drury Lane so 
rapidly as it now called forth the clerks of the Civil Service. 

But not among the early ones at the .gate was Mr. Arthur Lygon. 

He heard the last stroke of the bell, and the single note with which 
the little black clock on his mantelpiece ratified the announcement, 
before he closed the large volume in which he was making entries 
from some half-printed, half-written papers by his side ; and he pro- 
ceeded to arrange all his documents with the precision of a man who 
intends to resume an interrupted duty, and who knows the value of 
order and of time. He was exact, but not the least fidgetty — a man, 
happily married, seldom becomes a fidget at five-and-thirty. 

Nor did Arthur Lygon at once take up his hat and depart. A 
handsome man, happily married, seldom loses, at the age of thirty-five, 
his bachelor habit of paying some attention to appearances ; and Mr. 
Lygon went to the other end of his comfortable, double-sasheil apart- 
ment — exclusively his own — brushed his wavy dark brown hair, 
washed his aristocratic hands, and gave himself that good-natured 
look-over which a man who has no objectionable vanity, but has the 
laudable desire to be as presentable as he conveniently can, usually 
performs before rejoining society. King Henry the Fifth, when 
courting, vowed that he had never looked in the glass for the love of 
anything he saw there ; and the vows of kings — and emperors — are 
always truthful ; but all of us have not the regal faculty of self-abne- 
gation. Arthur Lygon, finishing his arrangements with a touch at his 
rather effective brown whiskers, saw, and was perfectly content to see 
in the glass the reflection of a set of intellectual features, somewhat of 
the Grecian type, but manifesting much power of decision, despite the 
good-tempered expression which they habitually wore. He perceived 
also that the person thus reflected was rather slight, but well made, 
and a little above the average height, and that his dress was in accord- 
ance with the fashion of the day, with a little more lightness and 
colour about it than one usually sees in the costume of a man of 
business. Lygon was a good-looking, well-dressed man, and if he 
had been previously unaware of the fact, he had been told it, with 
other things of a pleasant character, in one of a highly complimentary 
series of sketches called Our Civilians, which were appearing in a 
pictorial paper devoted to the immortalising British Worthies of 
various degrees of worthiness. 

In the memoir annexed to the likeness of the civilian in question it 



Forster.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 373 

was stated, with perfect accuracy, that Mr. Arthur Ljgon had entered 
the Plaudit Otfice when young, had risen, by his own merits, to a 
responsible and lucrative situation^ was much liked by his comrades, 
and much respected by his superiors, and was in every respect a valuable 
public servant. It was further stated, in classical language, that he 
had given hostages to society, a process that was explained lo mean 
that he had married Laura, third daughter of Archibald Vernon, of 
Lipthwaite, in the county of Surrey, and had three children. Society, 
therefore, had only to purchase the respectable journal containing the 
sketches of Our Civilians, in order to avoid betraying any ignorance 
upon so important a matter as the social position of Mr, Arthur Lygon, 
of the Plaudit Office ; and if it were in his destiny to distinguish him- 
self in after-time, and to join the legislative assembly of his country, 
here were materials ready at hand for the Parhamentary Handbooks — 
one is glad to be able to supply some vindication of the biographical 
zeal of the present age. — The Silver Cord: A Story. Chap. i. 



157.— GOLDSMITH PREPARING FOR A MEDICAL DEGREE. 

[Forster, 1812. 
[John Forster, born at Newcastle in 18 12, and educated at the London Univer- 
sity, studied for the bar. In 1834 he became connected with the Examiner, of 
which he obtained the editorship in 1846. He was appointed Secretary to the 
Commissioners in Lunacy in 1856, and a Commissioner in Lunacy in 186 1. His 
" Statesmen of the Commonwealth of England" appeared in 1840; his "Life of 
Oliver Goldsmith," in 1848; his "Biographical and Historical Essays," in 1858; 
his " Arrest of the Five Members by Charles L," in 1859; ^^^ "Debates on the 
Grand Remonstrance," in i860; and " Sir John Eliot, a Biography, 1590 — 1632," 
in 1864. Mr. Forster has contributed to the "Quarterly," the "Edinburgh," and 
the " Foreign Quarterly" Reviews.] 

The years of idleness must nevertheless come to a close. To do 
nothing,. no matter how melodiously accompanied by flute and harpsi- 
chord, is not what a man is born into this world to do 5 and it required 
but a casual word from a not very genial visitor to close for ever Gold- 
smith's happy nights at uncle Contarine's. There was a sort of cold 
grandee of the family. Dean Goldsmith of Cloyne, who did not think 
it unbecoming his dignity to visit the good clergyman's parsonage now 
and then 5 and Oliver having made a remark which showed him no 
fool, the dean gave it as his opinion to Mr. Contarine that his young 
relative would make an excellent medical man. The hint seemed a 
good one, and was the dean's contribution to his young relative's 
fortune. The small purse was contributed by Mr. Contarine 5 and 
in the autumn of 17^2, Oliver Goldsmith started for Edinburgh, 
medical student. 

Anecdotes of amusing simplicity and forgetfulness in this new 



374 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Forster. 

character are, as usual, more rife than notices of his course of study. 
But such records as have been preserved of the period rest upon 
authority too obviously doubtful to require other than a very cursory 
mention here. On the day of his arrival he is reported to have set 
forth for a ramble round the streets, after leaving his luggage at hired 
lodgings where he had forgotten to inquire the name either of the 
street or the landlady, and to which he only found his way back by the 
accident of meeting the porter who had carried his trunk from the 
coach. He is also said to have obtained, in this temporary abode, a 
knowledge of the wondrous culinary expedients with which three 
medical students might be supported for a whole week on a single loin 
of mutton, by a brandered chop served up one day, a fried steak 
another, chops with onion sauce a third, and so on till the fleshy parts 
should be quite consumed, v^hen finally, on the seventh day, a dish of 
broth manufactured from the bones would appear, and the ingenious 
landlady rested from her labours. It is moreover recorded, in proof of 
his careless habits in respect to money, that being in company with 
several fellow-students on the first night of a new play, he suddenly 
proposed to draw lots with any one present which of the two should 
treat the whole party to the theatre ; when the real fact was, as he 
afterwards confessed in speaking of the secret joy with which he heard 
them all decline the challenge, that had it been accepted, and had he 
proved the loser, he must have pledged a part of his wardrobe in 
order to raise the money. This last anecdote, if true, reveals to us at 
any rate that he had a wardrobe to pledge. Such resource in the 
matter of dress is one of his peculiarities found generally peeping out 
in some form or other : and, unable to confirm any other fact in these 
recollections, I can at least establish that. 

But first let me remark that no traditions remain of the character or 
extent of his studies. It seems tolerably certain that any learned 
celebrity he may have got in the schools, paled an inefi^ectual fire 
before his amazing social repute, as inimitable teller of a humorous 
story and capital singer of Irish songs. But he was really fond of 
chemistry, and was remembered favourably by the celebrated Black 5 
other well known fellow-students, as William Farr, and his whilome 
college acquaintance, Lauchlan Macleane, conceived a regard for him, 
which somewhat latter Farr seems to have had the opportunity of 
showing ; certainly of kind quaker Sleigh, afterwards known as 
the eminent physician of that name, as painter Barry's first 
patron, Burke's friend, and one of the many victims of Foote's 
witty malice, so much may without contradiction be affirmed ; and it 
is therefore to be supposed that his eighteen months' residence in 
Edinburgh was, on the whole, not unprofitable. It had its mortifica- 
tions, of course 3 for all his life had these. " An ugly and a poor man 



Lord Lindsay.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 375 

is society only for himself; and such society the world lets me enjoy 
in great abundance :" " nor do I envy my dear Bob his blessings, while 
I may sit down and laugh at the world ; and at myself, the most 
ridiculous object in it:" are among his expressions of half bitter half 
good-natured candour, in a letter to his cousin Bryanton. — -The Life 
and Times of Oliver Goldsmith, Book i. chap. iv. 



158.— THE CONVENT OF ST. CATHERINE. 

[Lord Lindsay, 1812. 
[Alexander William Crawford, Lord Lindsay, eldest son of the Earl of Craw-^ 
ford, born in 181 2, was educated at Eton and Cambridge, where he took his degree 
in 1833. Lord Lindsay afterwards travelled in Europe and Asia, and in 1838 pub- 
lished " Letters on Egypt, Edom, and the Holy Land." His " Letter on the Theory 
and Evidences of Christianity," appeared in 1841 ; his " Progression by Antagonism," 
in 1846; his " Sketches of the History of Christian Art," in 1847; and " Lives of 
the Lindsays," in 1849.] 

In a few minutes more, advancing up a narrow ravine at the extremity 
of the plain, and passing the garden with its lofty cypresses, we arrived 
under the walls of the Convent of St. Catherine, a regular monastic 
fortress — it has exactly the appearance of one, and is indeed, defended 
by guns against the Arabs. A window, under a projecting shed, was 
presently opened, and a rope (Sir Frederick Henniker calls it a halter) 
dropped, by which first our luggage and letter of introduction from 
the Greek Convent at Cairo, and then ourselves, were hoisted up by a 
windlass ; there once was a door, but it had been walled up, for, when- 
ever it was opened, which only took place on the arrival of the Arch- 
bishop, the Bedoains had the right of entrance. For this reason the 
Archbishops always reside now at Cairo. 

The monks are obliged to supply the Bedouins with bread a discretion, 
and an ample provision in that kind was lowered to them after our 
ascent. No Arabs are ever allowed to enter, except the servants of 
the convent. The maxim " quis custodiat ipsos custodes," is literally 
acted upon here ; our conference with Hussein, the Sheikh or chief 
protector of the convent, about conveyance to Akaba, was carried on 
throagh a hole in the wall ; we squatted on one side, and he stood at 
the other; it was like talking through a key-hole. 

We were received by the Superior and some of the monks on the 
landing-place, but could not answer their greeting, nor make ourselves 
understood, tillMissirie came up, not one of them apparently, speaking 
any language that we were acquainted with. Modern Greek and 
Arabic' seem to be the only tongues in use here. The Superior, a fine 
old man, witli a mild benevolent countenance, a long beard and 



376 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lord Lindsay. 

immense moustaches, (sadly in need of Princess Parizade's scissors,) 
showed us to our apartment, carpeted and divaned in the eastern 
style, and adorned by a print of the Virgin and Child, with a lamp 
burning before it ; we sat down with him, and he welcomed us kindly 
to Mount Sinai. He is a Greek from Candia ; I had the pleasure of 
informing him a day or two afterwards, when he told me of his birth- 
place, that an ancestor of mine. Sir Alexander de Lindesay of Glenesk, 
a brave and adventurous knight, died there on his pilgrimage to the 
Holy Sepulchre, in 1382. Dried fruit and rakie, a strong brandy made 
from dates, were presented to us while dinner was in preparation — 
maigre, it being Lent. 

Father Dimitri ciceroned us over the convent two or three days 
afterwards. It resembles a little fortified town, irregularly built on the 
steep side of the mountain, and surrounded by lofty walls ; the 
passages and courts are kept very neat and clean -, balconies with wooden 
balustrades run round each area, on which the doors of the several 
apartments open 3 texts of Scripture are inscribed on the walls in 
every direction — in inextricably contracted Greek. 

The principal church, built by the Emperor Justinian, the founder 
of the convent, is really beautiful ; the richly ornamented roof is 
supported by rows of granite pillars barbarously whitewashed ; the 
pavement is of marble ; — the walls are covered with portraits of 
saints, the Virgin and Child, and scenes from the Bible, in the old 
Byzantine style of the middle ages : most of them are modern, but 
some very ancient and very interesting for the history of the art ; they 
are almost all in good preservation. The concha of the tribune dis- 
plays in mosaic work, contemporary with Justinian, the Trans- 
figuration of our Saviour. The chapels are also full of paintings, 
some of them Russian, but in the same style, the painting 
of Russia being a branch of that of Byzantium. The nave is 
lighted by a superb silver chandelier, presented by Elizabeth of Russia, 
and I saw several candelabra of great beauty. The reading- 
desks, &c., are of tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl inlaid. In the 
choir is preserved the coffin in which Saint Catherine's bones are said 
to repose, and the silver lid of a sarcophagus, embossed with the 
portrait of Anne of Russia, who intended being buried here. 

We put oiFour shoes from off our feet before approaching the most 
revered spot on Mount Sinai, or rather Horeb, (as they call this part 
of the mountain,) — where our Lord is said to have appeared to Moses 
in the burning bush. This little chapel is gorgeously ornamented ; a 
New Testament in modern Greek, with superbly embossed covers, 
lies on the altar, — behind it, they show — not exactly the burning 
bush, but a shrub which they say has flourished there ever since, its 
lineal descendant. The kind, hospitable monks are not to blame — 



Mackintosh.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 377 

thev believe as the tale has been handed down to them ; but on what 
authority, we must again and again ask, are these spots pointed out as 
the scenes mentioned in the Bible ? — Letters on Egypt, Edom, and the 
Holy Land. Letters on Edom and the Holy Land, No. i. 



159.— PLATO. 

[Sir J. Mackintosh, 1765 — 1832. 
[James Mackintosh, born at Aldourie, Inverness-shire, Oct. 24, 1765, was educated 
at Glasgow and Edinburgh. Having studied medicine he settled in London and 
applied himself to literary pursuits. His " Vindicise Gallicas,'' in answer to Burke's 
"Reflections on the French Revolution," appeared in 1791, and he was called to 
the bar in 1795. He defended Peltier, Feb. 21, 1803, was appointed Recorder for 
Bombay in 1804, and Judge of the Admiralty Court in 1806. He returned to 
England in 18 11, and was elected for Nairn in 1813. Sir James Mackintosh, ap- 
pointed Professor of Law in the College at Haileybury in 18 18, and a member of 
the Board of Control in 1830, died May 22, 1832. His "Dissertation on Ethical 
Philosophy, chiefly during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries," written for 
the Encyclopcedia Britannica, was re-published in 1830, and his "History of 
England," in Lardner's Cabinet C?/c/op«?rf2a, appeared in 1830 — 2. His "History 
of the Revolution in England in 1688," with a notice of his Life, appeared in 1834, 
and " Memoirs of his Life," edited by his son, in 1835.] 

Plato, the most famous of his scholars,* the most eloquent of Grecian 
writers, and the earliest moral philosopher whose writings have come 
down to us, employed his genius in the composition of dialogues, in 
which his master performed the principal part. These beautiful con- 
versations would have lost their charm of verisimilitude, of dramatic 
vivacity, of picturesque representation of character, if they had been 
subjected to the constraint of method. They necessarily pre-suppose 
much oral instruction. They frequently quote, and doubtless oftener 
allude to, the opinions of predecessors and contemporaries whose 
works have perished, and of whose doctrines only some fragments are 
preserved. 

In these circumstances, it must be difficult for the most learned 
and philosophical of his commentators to give a just representa- 
tion of his doctrines, if he really framed or adopted a system. 
The moral part of his works is more accessible. The vein of 
thought which runs through them is always visible. The object is 
to inspire the love of truth, of wisdom, of beauty, especially of 
goodness — the highest Beauty, and o\ that supreme and Eternal Mind, 
which contains all truth and wisdom, all beauty and goodness. 
By the love or delightful contemplation and pursuit of these tran- 
scendant aims for their own sake only, he represented the mind of 
man as raised from low and perishable objects, and prepared for those 

* Socrates. 



378 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Mackintosh. 

high destinies which are appointed for all those who are capable of 
them. 

The application to moral qualities of terms which denote out- 
ward beauty, though by him perhaps carried to excess, is an 
illustrative metaphor, as well warranted by the poverty of language 
as any other employed to signify the acts or attributes of mind. The 
beautiful in his language denoted all that of which the mere con- 
templation is in itself delightful, without any admixture of organic 
pleasure, and without being regarded as the means of attaining any 
farther end. The feeling which belongs to it he called love; a 
word which, as comprehending complacency, benevolence, and affec- 
tion, and reaching from the neighbourhood of the senses to the most 
sublime of human thoughts, is foreign from the colder and more exact 
language of our philosophy ; but which perhaps then happily served 
to lure both the lovers of poetry, and the votaries of superstition to 
the school of truth and goodness in the groves of the Academy. 
He enforced these lessons by an inexhaustible variety of just and 
beautiful illustrations, — sometimes striking from their familiarity, 
sometimes subduing by their grandeur ; and his works are the store- 
house from which moralists have from age to age borrowed the means 
of rendering moral instruction easier and more delightful. Virtue he 
represented as the harmony of the whole soul ; — as a peace between 
all its principles and desires, assigning to each as much space as they 
can occupy without encroaching on each other ; as a state of perfect 
health, in which every function was performed with ease, pleasure, 
and vigour ; — as a well-ordered commonwealth, where the obedient 
passions executed with energy the laws and commands of reason. 
The vicious mind presented the odious character, sometimes of dis- 
cord, of war • — sometimes of disease — always of passions warring 
with each other in eternal anarchy. Consistent with himself, and at 
peace with his fellows, the good man felt in the quiet of his con- 
science a foretaste of the approbation of God. *' Oh what ardent 
love would virtue inspire if she could be seen." "If the heart of a 
tyrant could be laid bare, we should see how it was cut and torn by 
its own evil passions, and by an avenging conscience." 

Perhaps in every one of these illustrations, an eye trained in the 
history of Ethics may discover the germ of the whole, or of a part, of 
some subsequent theory. But t(5 examine it thus would not be to 
look at it with the eye of Plato. His aim was as practical as that of 
Socrates. He employed every topic, without regard to its place in a 
system, or even always to its force as argument, which could attract 
the small portion of the community then accessible to cultivation ; who, 
it should not be forgotten, had no moral instructor but the philosopher. 



Moore.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 379 

unaided, if not thwarted, by the reigning superstition j for religion 
had not then, besides her own discoveries, brought down the most 
awful and tlie most beautiful forms of moral truth to the humblest 
station in human society. — Dissertatioji on the Progress of Ethical 
Philosophy, chiefly during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries. 
Section ii.. Retrospect of Ancient Ethics. 



160.— THE FEAST OF ROSES. 

[Moore, 1779 — 1852. 
[Thomas Moore, born in Dublin May 28, 1779, was educated at Trinity College, 
Dublin, and studied for the English bar. Though he had before contributed verses 
to the magazines, his first work, " Odes of Anacreon, translated into English Verse, 
with Notes," appeared in 1800; and "The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little," 
followed in 1801. Lord ^Sloira procured him a Government appointment at 
Bermuda, where he arrived in Jan. 1S04. This he soon resigned, and after a tour in 
the United States, which quite cured him of republican views imbibed in early life, 
he returned to England. His " Epistles, Odes, and other Poems," appeared in 1806; 
" Intercepted Letters ; or the Twopennv Post Bag," in i8i2j " Lalla Rookh," in 
1817 ; "The Fudge Family in Paris," in 1818 ; "The Loves of the Angels," in 1823 ; 
and " Alciphron," in 1839. In 1835 he obtained a pension of ^'300 per annum. 
He was the author of some prose works, the principal being a " Life of Sheridan," 
published in 1825; a "Life of Byron," in 1830; and a "Life of Lord Edward 
Fitzgerald," in 1831. He wrote a Histon,^ of Ireland for Lardner's Cabinet Cyclo- 
pcedia, and edited a collected edition of his own poetical works, published in 1 840-1. 
The latter portion of his life was spent at Slopenon Cottage, near Bowood, where he 
died Feb. 25, 1852. His "Memoirs, Journal and Correspondence," edited by Lord 
John Russell, appeared in 8 vols. 1852-6, and a "' Biography," by H. R. Montgomery, 
in i860.] 

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave. 

Its temples, and grortos, and fountains as clear 

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave ? 

Oh ! to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er the Lake 

Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws. 
Like a bride, fall of blushes, when lingering to take 

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes ! — 
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown. 
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. 
Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells. 

Here the ISIagian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging. 
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. 
Or to see it by moonlight, — when mellowly shines 
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines j 



38o THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Moore. 

When the water-falls gleam^ like a quick fall of stars. 
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars 
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet 
From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet — 
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks. 
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth e\evy one 
Out of darkness, as if but just bom of the Sun- 
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day. 
From his Harem of night-flowers stealing away ; 
Ajid the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover 
The young aspen-trees, till they tremble all over. 
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes. 

And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurled. 
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes, 

Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world ! 

But never yet, by night or day. 
In dew of spring or summer' s ray. 
Did the sweet Valley shine so gay 
As now it shines — aU love and light. 
Visions by day and feasts by night ! 
A happier smile iUumes each brow. 

With quicker spread each heart uncloses. 
And all is ecstasy, — for now 

The Valley holds its Feast of Roses ; 
The joyous Time, when pleasures pour 
Profusely round, and in their shower. 
Hearts open, like the Season's Rose, 

The Flow' ret of a hundred leaves. 
Expanding while the dew-fall flows. 

And ever}' leaf its balm receives. 

'Twas when the hour of evening came 

Upon the Lake, serene and cool. 
When Day had hid his sultrj' flame 

Behind the palms of Baeamoule, 
When maids began to lift their beads. 
Refresh" d from their embroidered beds. 
Where they had slept the sun away. 
And waked to moonlight and to play. 
All were abroad — the busiest hive 
On Bela's hills is less alive. 



SrnsSdf." 



1*1. — IMD>iffH^i2!kCE OF THE WQSID TO SELfiGaD5>iL 
m iS24><BBa£ 







382 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Blomfield. 

religion once for all ? and the fault rests too commonly with their 
parents. Yet it is the duty of their parents, in a far higher degree 
than it is the duty of their minister, to make their children Christians 
in understanding, and on principle, as well as by name. What a 
dreadful responsibihty is theirs, who neglect any probable means of 
putting their children into the way of salvation ! What anguish will 
pierce their hearts, if at the judgment-day their child shall cry out 
against them. My father and my mother forsook me ; they kept me 
back from Christ 3 they gave me no preservative against sin 3 I perish 
by their neglect ! 

But it is no less incumbent upon you, Christian masters and 
heads of families, to direct your servants, and the younger in- 
mates of your house, in the choice of their religion. When 
Joshua had proposed to the children of Israel, in the words of the 
text. Choose you this day whom ye will serve, he concluded by de- 
claring, as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord. It 
is a part, a most important part of your duty towards your servants, 
to assist them, either by your own instructions, or by procuring 
for them that of others, in forming clear and active notions of religion. 
It is a part of the duty which you owe to the Church, of which you 
are members, to bring them into her bosom, and to enable them to 
profit by her ordinances and means of grace. 

To you, my younger friends, let me say, with all the earnestness 
and sincerity of a real concern for your salvation. Choose you 
this day whom ye will serve. You are old enough to discern be- 
tween the good and the evil : both are set before you, and God 
expects that you will make your choice. Do not flatter your- 
selves that you can remain, for a certain number of years, in a state 
of neutrality and indifference, and then make your election ; for 
that will be in effect choosing at once to serve the world rather than 
Christ : and you will hereafter be not only less qualified, but less in- 
clined to enter into the service of your Redeemer, Remember, that you 
have been already solemnly dedicated to him ; given to him 3 redeemed 
from your lost state 3 made capable of sanctification, and, in due time, of 
advancement to glory. This is the great purpose of your life, and 
ought to be the main object of the whole and every part of it. To 
choose between Christ and the world, that is, the sinful pleasures of 
the world, is to choose, in all probability, between happiness and misery 
in this life, but certainly between eternal bliss and woe in that which 
is to come. If you confess not Christ before men, if you make not an 
open choice of the Gospel, neither will he confess you before his Father 
in heaven; and if you mean to confess him at all, which you must 
do, to be saved, can there be any period of life so proper for it, as that, 
when you are first able to form a right judgment of the privileges and 



Bentham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 383 

blessings which he offers to you ? Believe me, he expects you to come 
to him now 3 to bring bim the first-fruits of your life 3 to consecrate 
to him your reason, yet unperverted ; your affection, yet uncorrupt : 
and in return, he will extend over you the arm of his protecting lovej 
will pour his grace into your hearts ; will give you a relish for the things 
of God ; will enlighten you more and more in the saving truths of 
his Gospel 5 and will strengthen you to withstand the trials to which 
your age is most exposed. 

But what I say to you, I say to all those, who have no fixed, 
and well considered, and heartfelt principles of religion ; Choose 
you this day whom ye will serve. You think, perhaps, that you 
are serving God : but it is not serving him, merely to attend the 
ordinances of public worship, and to abstain from the commission 
of the more flagrant sins, unless you serve him on principle 3 from 
a steady regard to his honour, and a sense of gratitude for the 
mercies which he has wrought for you in Jesus Christ. It is not 
serving him, unless you are consistent in your profession and practice ; 
devout in your own closet and in the bosom of your family, as well 
as at Church 5 diligent to read the word of God as well as to hear itj 
actively charitable and beneficent, as well as strictly just and honesty 
pure and holy in your secret practice and thoughts, as well as in out- 
ward appearance 3 observant oi all the ordinances of religion, and not 
of some only, to the neglect of others ; cheerfully and devoutly 
acknowledging the unspeakable mercy of God in the work of your 
redemption, not only in the ordinary solemnities of public prayer, but 
in the more characteristic and peculiar act of Christian worship, 
appointed by the Lord Jesus himself. Certainly no man who has 
really chosen his service, can refuse him that mark of honour and 
thankfulness, or deny himself that source of grace and strength. — 
Sermons preached in the Parish Church of Si. Botolph, Bishopsgate. 
Sermon ix.. Choice of a ReUgion, Joshua xxiv. 15. 



162.— OF SLEEPING LAWS. 

[Bentham, 1748 — 1832. 
[Jeremy Bentham, born in London, Feb. it;, 1748, -w^s educated at Westminster 
and Oxford, and called to the bar in 1772. His first publication, "A Fragment on 
Government," appeared in 1776. It was followed by "Defence of Usury" in 1786, 
"Panopticon, or the Inspection House" in 1791, "Books of Fallacies" in 1824, and 
a variety of works. In 1817 he was made a Bencher of Lincoln's Inn, and he died 
June 6, 1832. A collected edition of his works appeared in 1843, ^nd a life by 
Bowring in 1838. Bentham says — "In the phrase, 'the greatest happiness of the 
greatest number/ I then saw delineated for the first time* a plain, as well as a true. 



* In a pamphlet by Priestley. 



384 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bentham. 

standard for whatever is right or wrong, useful, useless, or mischievous in human 
conduct, whether in the field of morals or politics."] 

Tyranny and anarchy are never far asunder. Dearly indeed must 
the laws pay for the mischief of which they are thus made the instru- 
ments. The weakness they are thus struck with does not confine 
itself to the peccant spot ; it spreads over their whole frame. The 
tainted parts throw suspicion upon those that are yet sound. Who 
can say which of them the disease has gained, which of them it has 
spared ? You open the statute-book, and look into a clause : does it 
belong to the sound part, or to the rotten ? How can you say ? by 
what token are you to know ? A man is not safe in trusting to his 
own eyes. You may have the whole statute-book by heart, and all 
the while not know what ground you stand upon under the law. It 
pretends to fix your destiny : and after all, if you want to know your 
destiny, you must learn it, not from the law, but from the temper of 
the times. The temper of the times, did I say ? You must know 
the temper of every individual in the nation j you must know, not 
only what it is at the present instant, but what it will be at every 
future one : all this you must know, before you can lay your hand 
upon your bosom, and say to yourself, / am safe. What, all this while, 
is the character and condition of the law ? Sometimes a bugbear, at 
other times a snare : her threats inspire no efficient terror ; her promises, 
no confidence. The canker-worm of uncertainty, naturally the 
peculiar growth and plague of the unwritten law, insinuates itselr 
thus into the body, and preys upon the vitals of the written. 

All this mischief shows as nothing in the eyes of the tyrant by 
whom this policy is upheld and pursued, and whose blind and malig- 
nant passions it has for its cause. His appetites receive that gratifi- 
cation which the times allow of: and in comparison with that, what 
are laws, or those for whose sake laws were made ? His enemies, that 
is, those whom it is his delight to treat as such, those whose enemy he 
has thought fit to make himself, are his footstool : their insecurity is 
his comfort J their sufferings are his enjoyments 3 their abasement is 
his triumph. 

Whence comes this pernicious and unfeeling policy ? It is tyranny's 
last shift, among a people who begin to open their eyes in the calm 
which has succeeded the storms of civil war. It is her last stronghold, 
retained by a sort of capitulation made with good government and 
good sense. Common humanity would not endure such laws, were 
they to give signs of life : negligence, and the fear of change, suffer 
them to exist so long as they promise not to exist to any purpose. 
Sensible images govern the bulk of men. What the eye does not see, 
the heart does not rue. Fellow-citizens dragged in crowds, for con- 



Bentham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 385 

science sake, to prison, or to the gallows, though seen but for the, 
moment, might move compassion. Silent anxiety and inward humi- 
liation do not meet the eye, and draw little attention, though they fill 
up the measure of a whole life. 

Of this base and malignant policy an example would scarcely be to 
be found, were it not for religious hatred, of all hatred the bitterest 
and the blindest. Debarred by the infidelity of the age from that 
most exquisite of repasts, the blood of heretics, it subsists as it can 
upon the idea of secret sufferings — sad remnant of the luxury of 
better times. 

It is possible, that, in the invention of this policy, timidity may have 
had some share ; for between tyranny and timidity there is a near 
alliance. Is it probable ? Hardly : the less so, as tyranny, rather than 
let go its hold, such is its baseness, will put on the mask of cowardice. 
It is possible, shall we say, that in England forty should be in dread 
of one : but can it be called probable, when in Ireland forty suffer 
nothing from fourscore ? 

When they who stand up in the defence of tyrannical laws on 
pretence of their being in a dormant state, vouchsafe to say they wish 
not to see them in any other, is it possible they should speak true ? I 
will not say : the bounds of possibility are wide. Is it probable ? 
That is a question easier answered. To prevent a law from being 
executed, which is the most natural course to take ? to keep it alive, 
or to repeal it ? Were a man's wishes to see it executed ever so indis- 
putable, what stronger proof could he give of his sincerity than by 
taking this very course, in taking which he desires to be considered as 
wishing the law not to be executed ? When words and actions give 
one another the lie, is it possible to believe both ? If not, which have 
the best title to be believed ? The task they give to faith and charity 
is rather a severe one. They speak up for laws against thieves and 
smugglers : they speak up for the same laws, or worse, against the 
worshippers of God according to conscience : in the first instance, you 
are to believe they mean to do what they do ; in the other, you are to be- 
lieve they mean the contrary. Their words and actions are at varianct 
and they declare it : they profess insincerity, and insist upon being, shall 
we say, or upon tzo^ being believed. They give the same vote that was 
given by the authors of these laws ; they act over again the part that 
was acted by the first persecutors : but what was persecution in those 
their predecessors, is in these men, it seems, moderation and benevo- 
lence. This is rather too much. To think to unite the profit of 
oppression with the praise of moderation, is drawing rather too deep 
upon the credulity of mankind. 

For those who insist there is no hardship in a state of insecurity 

c c 



386 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Gaskell. 

there is one way of proving themselves sincere : let them change places 
with those they doom to it. One wish may be indulged without a 
breach of charity : may they, and they only, be subject to proscription, 
in whose eyes it is no grievance ! — Draught for the Organization of 
Judicial Establishments compared with the Draught ly the Committee 
of the National Assembly of France, Tit. vi. § 6. 



163.— RUTH'S SORROW. 

[Mrs. Gaskell, 1820 — 1865. 

[Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson, born in 1820, married a Unitarian minister, 
resident in Manchester. Her first work, " Mary Barton," was published anony- 
mously in 1848; "The Moorland Cottage," a Christmas book, in 1850; and 
"Ruth," a novel, in 1852. Her "Life of Charlotte Bronte" appeared in 1857: 
and she contributed to Household Wards and other periodicals. Mrs. Gaskell died 
suddenly at Alton, Nov. 19, 1865.] 

Was this the end of all ? Had he, indeed, gone ? She started up, and 
asked this last question of the servant, who, half-guessing at the 
purport of the note, had lingered about the room, curious to see the 
effect produced. 

'' Iss, indeed, miss ; the carnage drove from the door as I came up- 
stairs. You'll see it now on the Yspytty road, if you'll please to come 
to the window of No. 24." 

Ruth started up, and followed the chambermaid. Ay, there it was, 
slowly winding up the steep, white road, on which it seemed to move 
at a snail's pace. 

She might overtake him — she might — she might speak one fare- 
well word to him, print his face on her heart with a last look — nay, 
when he saw her he might retract, and not utterly, for ever, leave her. 
Thus she thought 3 and she flew back to her room, and snatching 
up her bonnet, ran, tying the strings with her trembling hands as she 
went down the stairs, out at the nearest door, little heeding the angry 
words of Mrs. Morgan ; for the hostess, more irritated at Mrs. Bel- 
lingham's severe upbraiding at parting, than mollified by her ample 
payment, was offended by the circumstance of Ruth, in her wild 
haste, passing through the prohibited front door. 

But Ruth was away before Mrs. Morgan had finished her speech, 
out and away, scudding along the road, thought-lost in the breath- 
less rapidity of her motion. Though her heart and head beat 
almost to bursting, what did it signify if she could but overtake 
the carriage ? It was a nightmare, constantly evading the most 
passionate wishes and endeavours, and constantly gaining ground. 
Every time it was visible it was in fact more distant, but Ruth 



Gaskell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 387 

would not believe it. If she could but gain the summit of that 
weary, everlasting hill, she believed that she could run again, and 
would soon be nigh upon the carriage. As she ran she prayed with 
wild eagerness ; she prayed that she might see his face once more, 
even if she died on the spot before him. It was one of those 
prayers which God is too merciful to grant 3 but despairing, and wild 
as it was, Ruth put her soul into it, and prayed it again, and yet again. 

Wave above wave of the ever-rising hills were gained, were crossed, 
and at last Ruth straggled up to the very top and stood on the bare 
table of moor, brown and purple, stretching far away till it was lost 
in the haze of the summer afternoon 3 the white road was all flat 
before her, but the carriage she sought, and the figure she sought, had 
disappeared. There was no human being there ; a few wild, black- 
faced mountain sheep, quietly grazing near the road, as if it were long 
since they had been disturbed by the passing of any vehicle, was all 
the life she saw on the bleak moorland. 

She threw herself down on the ling* by the side of the road, in 
despair. Her only hope was to die, and she believed she was dying. 
She could not think 3 she could believe anything. Surely life was 
a horrible dream, and God would mercifully awaken her from it ? 
She had no penitence, no consciousness of error or offence : no 
knowledge of any one circumstance but that he was gone. Yet 
afterwards — long afterwards — she remembered the exact motion 
of a bright green beetle busily meandering among the wild thyme 
near her, and she recalled the musical, balanced, wavering drop of a 
skylark into her nest, near the heather- bed where she lay. The sun 
was sinking low, the hot air had ceased to quiver near the hotter 
earth, when she bethought her once more of the note which she had 
impatiently thrown down before half mastering its contents. '*" Oh, 
perhaps," she thought, "I have been too hasty. There may be some 
words of explanation from him on the other side of the page, to 
which, in my blind anguish, I never turned. I will go and find it." 

She lifted herself heavily and stiffly from the crushed heather. 
She stood dizzy and confused with her change of posture 3 and was so 
unable to move at first, that her walk was but slow and tottering 3 but, 
by-and-by, she was tasked and goaded by thoughts which forced her 
into rapid motion, as if, by it, she could escape from her agony. She 
came down on the level ground, just as many gay or peaceful groups 
were sauntering leisurely home with hearts at ease 3 with low laughs 
and quiet smiles, and many an exclamation at the beauty of the 
summer evening. — Ruth .• a Novel, chap. viii. 



* The heath. 
C C 2 



388 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Mitford. 



164.— THE GAMES OF GREECE. 

[Mitford, 1744 — 1827. 

[William Mitford, born in London, Feb. 10, 1744, studied at the university of 
Oxford, but did not take his degree. In 1761 he succeeded to the family estate, and 
in 1769 became captain in the South Hampshire Militia, in which corps Gibbon, 
with whom he became intimate, was a major. His first work, " An Essay upon 
Harmony in Language, fee.,** was published in 1774 ; the first volume of his " His- 
tory of Greece" in 1784; the second in 1790, the third in J 796, the fourth 
in 1808, and the fifth in i8i8. His "Observations on the History and Doctrine of 
Christianity" appeared in 1823. Mitford died Feb. 8, 1827. A memoir, by Lord 
Redesdale, is prefixed to the edition of the " History of Greece," published in 1829.] 

From very early times it had been customary among the Greeks to 
hold numerous meetings for purposes of festivity and social amuse- 
ment. A foot-race, a wrestling match, or some other rude trial of 
bodily strength and activity, formed originally the principal entertain- 
ment, which seems to have been very similar in character to our 
country wakes. The almost ceaseless warfare among the little Grecian 
states gave especial value to military exercises which were accordingly 
ordinary in those games. Esteem for cudgel-playing among us has 
arisen from a state of disturbance always formerly to be appre- 
hended, though not so constantly actual, as in elder Greece. The 
connexion of these games with the warlike character may have occa- 
sioned their introduction at funerals in honour of the dead ; a custom 
which, we learn from Homer, was in his time ancient. But all the 
violence of the early ages was unable to repress that elegance of 
imagination which seems congenial to Greece. Very anciently a con- 
tention for a prize in poetry and music was a favourite entertainment 
of the Grecian people ; and when connected, as it often was, with 
some ceremony of religion, drew togetlier large assemblies of both 
sexes. A festival of this kind in the little island of Delos, at which 
Homer assisted, brought a numerous concourse from different parts by 
sea J and Hesiod informs us of a splendid meeting for the celebration 
of various games at Chalcis in Eubcea, where he himself obtained the 
prize for poetry and song. The contest in music and poetry seems 
early to have been particularly connected with the worship of Apollo. 
When this was carried from the islands of the ^Egean to Delphi, a 
prize for poetry was instituted ; and thence appear to have arisen the 
Pythian games. But Homer shows that games, in which athletic 
exercises and music and dancing were alternately introduced, made a 
common amusement of the courts of princes ; and before his time the 
manner of conducting them was so far reduced to a system that public 
judges of the games were of the established magistracy. Thus im- 
proved, the games greatly resembled the tilts and tournaments of the 



Mitford.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 389 

ages of chivalry. Men of high rank only presumed to engage in 
them : but a large concourse of all orders attended as spectators ; and 
to keep regularity among these was perhaps the most necessary office 
of the judges. But the most solemn meetings, drawing together 
people of distinguished rank and character, often from distant parts, 
were at the funerals of eminent men. The paramount sovereigns of 
Peloponnesus did not disdain to attend these, which were celebrated 
with every circumstance of magnificence and splendour that the age 
could aiFord. The funeral of Patroclus, described in the Iliad, may 
be considered as an example of what the poet could imagine in its 
kind most complete. The games, in which prizes were there contended 
for, were the chariot-race, the foot-race, boxing, wrestling, throwing 
the quoit and the javelin, shooting with the bow, and fencing with 
the spear. And in times when none could be rich or powerful but 
the strong and active, expert at martial exercises, all those trials of 
skill appear to have been esteemed equally becoming men of the 
highest rank ; though it may seem, from the prizes offered and the 
persons contending at the funeral of Patroclus, the poet himself saw, 
in the game of the csestus, some incongruity with exalted characters. 

Traditions are preserved of Games celebrated in Eleia, upon 
several great occasions, in very early times, with more than ordinary 
pomp, by assemblies of chiefs from different parts of Greece. Homer 
mentions such at Elis under King Augeas, contemporary with Her- 
cules, and gTandfather of one of the chiefs who commanded the 
Eleian troops in the Trojan war j and again at Buprasium in Eleia, for 
the funeral of Amarynceus, while Nestor was yet in the vigour of 
youth. But it does not at all appear from Homer that in his time, or 
ever before him, any periodical festival was established like that which 
afterward became so famous, under the title of the Olympiad or the 
Olympian Contest, or, as our writers, translating the Latin phrase, have 
commonly termed it, the Olympian Games. On the contrary, every men- 
tion of such games, in his extant works, shows them to have been only 
occasional solemnities 3 and Strabo has remarked that they were dis- 
tinguished by a characteristical difference from the Olympian. In these 
the honour derived from receiving publicly a crown or chaplet, formed 
of a branch of oleaster, was the only reward of the victor ; but in 
Homer's games the prizes, not merely honorary, were intrinsically 
valuable ; and the value was often very considerable. After Homer's 
age, through the long troubles ensuing from the Dorian conquest, and 
the great change made in the population of the country, the customs 
and institutions of the Peloponnesians were so altered and overthrown 
that even memory of the ancient games was nearly lost. — History of 
Greece, vol. i. ch. iii. § 4. 



390 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bowring. 

165.— THE FRIARS OF THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS. 

[Sir John Bowring, 1792. 

[John Bowring, born at Exeter, October 17, 1792, became the political pupil of 
Jeremy Bentham, and for some time edited the Westminster Revieiv. From 1835 
till 1837 he was returned to parliament for the Clyde boroughs, and from 1841 till 
1849 fo^ Bolton. In 1849 ^^ "^"^ made British consul at Canton. He was 
knighted in 1854, and the same year appointed Her Majesty's Plenipotentiary in 
China and Governor of Hong-Kong. In 1855 he proceeded on a special mission to 
Siam, and concluded a treaty. His work on the subject, "The Kingdom and 
People of Siam,'' w£is published in 1857. Sir John Bowring, who retired in 1859, 
published "A Visit to the Philippine Islands" in 1859, ^'^'^ ^^ ^^"^^ ^'^ report 
on the state of commercial relations with the new kingdom of Italy in 1861.] 

The personal courtesies, the kind reception and multifarious atten- 
tions which I received from, the friars in every part of the Philippines 
naturally dispose me to look upon them with a friendly eye. I found 
among them men worthy of being loved and honoured, some of con- 
siderable intellectual vigour ; but literary cultivation and scientific 
acquirements are rare. Occupied with their own concerns, they are 
little acquainted with mundane aifairs. Politics, geography, history, 
have no charms for those who, even had they the disposition for study, 
would, in their seclusion and remoteness^ have access to few of its 
appliances. Their convents are almost palatial, with extensive courts, 
grounds and gardens ; their revenues frequently enormous. Though 
their mode of life is generally unostentatious and simple, many of 
them keep handsome carriages and have the best horses in the locality j 
and they are surrounded generally by a prostrate and superstitious 
population, upon whose hopes and fears, thoughts and feelings, they 
exercise an influence which would seem magical were it not by their 
devotees deemed divine. This influence, no doubt, is greatly due to 
the heroism, labours, sufferings and sacrifices of the early missionaries, 
and to the admirably organized hierarchy of the Roman Church, 
whose ramifications reach to the extremest points in which any of the 
forms or semblances of Christianity are to be discovered. Volumes 
upon volumes — the folio records of the proceedings of the different 
religious orders, little known to Protestant readers — fill the library 
shelves of these Catholic establishments, which are the receptacles of • 
their religious history. 

The most extensively influential brotherhood in the Phihppines 
is that of the Augustines {Agost'mos CaLzados), who administer 
to the cure of more than a million and a half of souls. The 
barefooted Augustines {Agostinos Descalzos, or Recoletos) claim 
authority over about one-third of this number. The Dominicans 
occupy the next rank, and their congregations are scarcely less 



Bowring.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 391 

numerous than those of the barefooted Augustines. Next come the 
Franciscans, who are supposed to rank with the Dominicans in the 
extent of their authority. Independently of the monastic orders and 
the superior ecclesiastic authorities, there are but a small number of 
parochial or secular clergy in the Philippines. 

On occasions of installations under the '' royal seal," the ceremonies 
take place in the church of the Augastines, the oldest in Manila, 
where also the regimental flags receive their benediction, and other 
pub He civil festivals are celebrated. A convent is attached to the 
church. Both the regular Augustines and the Recoletos receive 
pecuniary assistance from the State. The Franciscans rank next to 
the Augustines in the number of their clergy. 

A source of influence possessed by the friars, and from which a 
great majority of civil functionaries are excluded, is the mastery of the 
native languages. All the introductory studies of ecclesiastical aspi- 
rants are dedicated to this object. No doubt they have great advan- 
tages from living habitually among the Indian people, with whom 
they keep up the most uninterrupted intercourse, and of whose con- 
cerns they have an intimate knowledge. One of the most obvious 
means of increasing the power of the civil departments would be in 
encouragement given to their functionaries for the acquirement of 
the native idioms. I believe Spanish is not employed in the pulpits 
anywhere beyond the capital. In many of the pueblos there is not a 
single individual Indian who understands Castilian, so that the priest 
is often the only link between the government and the community, 
and, as society is now organized, a necessary link. It must be recol- 
lected, too, that the different members of the religious brotherhoods 
are bound together by stronger bonds and a more potent and influen- 
tial organization than any official hierarchy among civilians ; and the 
government can expect no co-operation from the priesthood in any 
measures which tend to the diminution of ecclesiastical authority or 
jurisdiction, and yet the subjection of that authority to the State, and 
its limitation wherever it interferes with the public well-being, is the 
great necessity and the all-important problem to be solved in the 
Philippines. But here, too, the Catholic character of the government 
itself presents an enormous and almost invincible difficulty. Nothing 
is so dear to a Spaniard in general as his religion ; his orthodoxy is 
his pride and glory, and upon this foundation the Romish Church 
naturally builds up a political power and is able to intertwine its 
pervading influence with all the machinery of the civil government. 
The Dutch have no such embarrassment in their archipelago. — A Visit 
to the Philippine Islands. Chap, xii.. Ecclesiastical Authority. 



392 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Arnold. 



1 66.— EDUCATION OF THE MIDDLE CLASSES. 

[Dr. Arnold, 1795 — 1842. 
[Thomas Arnold, born at West Cowes, in the Isle of Wight, June 13, 1795, was 
educated at Winchester and at Oxford, where he obtained a fellowship in 1815. 
He was ordained in 18 18, and resided at Oxford until 18 19, when he removed to 
Laleham, near Staines, and became head-master of Rugby School in 1828. He 
accepted a seat in the Senate of the London University in 1835, retired in 1838, and 
was appointed Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford in 1841. Dr. Arnold, 
who was a laborious author, is best known by his " History of Rome,'^ his " Lec- 
tures on Modern History," and his edition of Thucydides. He published several 
volumes of sermons. His death occurred at Rugby June 12, 1842, and he was 
buried in the chancel of the chapel. A life, by the Rev. A. P. Stanley, appeared 
in 1844.] 

Every man, from the highest to the lowest, has two businesses 3 the 
one his own particular profession or calling, be it what it will, whether 
that of soldier, seaman, farmer, lawyer, mechanic, labourer, &c. — the 
other his general calling, which he has in common with aU his neigh- 
bours, namely, the calling of a citizen and a man. The education 
which fits him for the first of these two businesses, is called profes- 
sional 3 that which fits him for the second, is called liberal. But 
because every man must do this second business, whether he does it 
well or ill, so people are accustomed to think that it is learnt more 
easily. A man who has learnt it indiff^erently seems, notwithstanding, 
to get through life with tolerable comfort 3 he may be thought not to be 
very wise or very agreeable, yet he manages to get married, and to bring 
up a family, and to mix in society with his friends and neighbours. 
Whereas, a man who has learnt his other business indifferently, I mean, 
his particular trade or calling, is in some danger of starving outright. 
People will not employ an indifferent workman when good ones are 
to be had in plenty ; and, therefore, if he has learnt his particular 
business badly, it is hkely that he will not be able to practise it at all. 

Thus it is that while ignorance of a man's special business is instantly 
detected, ignorance of his great business as a man and a citizen is 
scarcely noticed, because there are so many who share in it. Thus we 
see every one ready to give an opinion about politics, or about rehgion, 
or about morals, because it is said these are every man's business. 
And so they are, and if people would learn them as they do their own 
particular business, all would do well : but never was the proverb more 
fulfilled which says that every man's business is no man's. It is worse 
indeed than if it were no man's ; for now it is every man's business to 
meddle in, but no man's to learn. And this general ignorance does not 
make itself felt directly, — if it did, it were more likely to be remedied : 
but the process is long and roundabout ; false notions are entertained 
and acted upon 3 prejudices and passions multiply 3 abuses become mani- 



Arnold.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 393 

fold 3 difficulty and distress at last press on the whole community; 
whilst the same ignorance which produced the mischief now helps to 
confirm it or to aggravate it, because it hinders them from seeing 
where the root of the wdiole evil lay, and sets them upon some vain 
attempt to correct the consequences, while they never think of curing, 
because they do not suspect the cause. 

I believe it is generally the case, at least in the agricultural districts, 
that a boy is taken aw^ay from school at fourteen. He is taken away, 
less than half educated, because his friends want him to enter upon 
his business in life without any longer delay. That is, the interests of 
his great business as a man are sacrificed to the interest of his par- 
ticular business as a farmer or a tradesman. And yet very likely the 
man who cares so little about pohtical knowledge, is very earnest about 
political power, and thinks that it is most unjust if he has no share in 
the election of members of the legislature. I do not blame any one 
for taking his son from school at an early age when he is actually 
obliged to do so, but I fear that in too many instances there is no sense 
entertained of the value of education, beyond its fitting a boy for his 
own immediate business in life : and until this be altered for the better, 
I do not see that we are likely to grow much wiser, or that though 
political power may pass into diff^erent hands, that it will be exercised 
more purely or sensibly than it has been. 

"But the newspapers — they are cheap and ready instructors 
in political knowledge, from whom all may, and all are willing 
to learn." A newspaper reader, addressing a newspaper editor, 
must not speak disrespectfully of that with \^hich they are them- 
selves concerned; but we know. Sir, and every honest man 
connected with a newspaper would confess also, that our instruc- 
tion is often worse than useless to him who has never had any other. 
We suppose that our readers have some knowledge and some princi- 
ples of their own ; and adapt our language to them accordingly. I 
am afraid that we in many cases suppose this untruly 3 and the wicked 
amongst our fraternity make their profit out of their readers' ignorance, 
by telling them that they are wise. But instruction must be regular 
and systematic ; whereas a new^spaper must give the facts of the day 
or the week, — and if it were to overload these wdth connected essays 
upon general principles, it would not be read. I fear that my own 
letters tax the patience of some of your readers to the utmost allowable 
length : and that many, perhaps those w^ho might find them most 
useful, never think of reading them at all. And yet my letters, 
although the very least entertaining things that coald be tolerated in a 
newspaper, cannot and do not pretend to give instructions to those 
who are wholly ignorant. All my hope is to set my readers thinking 3 



394 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Montgomer>'. 

and my highest delight would be that any one should be induced by 
them to suspect his own ignorance, and to try to gain knowledge where 
it is to be gained. But assuredly he who does honestly want to gain 
knowledge will not go to a newspaper to look for it. 

No, Sir, real knowledge, like everything else of the highest value, 
is not to be obtained so easily. It must be worked for, — studied for, — 
thought for, — and more than all, it must be prayed for. And that is 
education, which lays the foundation of such habits, — and gives them, 
so far as a boy's early age will allow, their proper exercise. For doing 
this, the materials exist in the studies actually pursued in our com- 
mercial schools ; but it cannot be done eifectually, if a boy's educa- 
tion is to be cut short at fourteen. His schooling indeed may be ended 
without mischief, if his parents are able to guide his education after- 
wards ; and the way to gain this hereafter, is to make the most of 
the schooling time of the rising generation, — that finding how much 
may be done even in their case, within the limited time allowed for 
their education, they may be anxious to give their children greater 
advantages, that the fruit may be proportionably greater. 

It may be that this is impracticable, to which I have only to say 
that I will not believe it to be so till I am actually unable to hope 
otherwise ; for if it be impracticable, my expectations of good from 
any political changes are faint indeed. These changes might still be 
necessary, might still be just, but they would not mend our condition ; 
the growth of evil, moral and political, would be no less rapid than it 
is now. — Miscellaneous Works: Education of the Middle Classes. 
Letter ii. 



167.— THE GRAVE. 

[Montgomery, 1771 — 1854. 

[James Montgomery, the son of a Moravian minister, was born at Irvine, Ayrshire, 
Nov. 4, 1 77 1. After following various occupations, he in 1794 established the 
Sheffield Iris, which he edited until 1825. His first publication, "The Wanderer of 
Switzerland, and other Poems," appeared in 1806, and was followed by "The West 
Indies" in 1810; "The World before the Flood" in 1812; and "The Pelican 
Island and other Poems," in 1827. He obtained a pension from Government in 
1835, and died April 30, 1854. Memoirs by Holland and Everett appeared in 
1854, and another biography by J. W. King, in 1858.] 

There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found. 
They softly lie and sweetly sleep 
Low in the ground. 



Montgomery-.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 395 

The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
No more disturbs their sweet repose. 
Than summer-evening's latest sigh 
That shuts the rose. 

I long to lay this painful head 
And aching heart beneath the soil. 
To slumber in that dreamless bed 
From all my toil. 

For Misery stole me at my birth. 
And cast me helpless on the wild : 

I perish ; O my Mother Eartli ! 

Take home tliy child. 

On thy dear lap these hmbs recUned 
S hall gently moulder into thee ; 
Nor leave one wretched trace behind 
Resembling me. 

Hark I — a strange sound affrights mine ear ■ 
INIy pulse, — my brain runs wild, — I rave ; 

Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? 

'' I am THE GRAVE ! 

" The GRAVE, that never spake before. 
Hath found at length a tongue to chide j 
O listen 1 — I will speak no more : — 
Be silent. Pride ! 

^^ Art thou a WRETCH of hope forlorn. 
The victim of consuming care ? 
Is thy distracted conscience torn 
By fell despair r 

*■•' Do foul misdeeds of former times 
AVring with remorse thy guilty breast ? 
And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 
INIurder thy rest ? 

" Lashed by the furies of the mind, 
From Wratli and Vengeance wouldst thou flee ? 
Ah I think not, hope not, fool, to tind 
A friend in me. 



396 THE EFERY-DAY BOOR [Montgomery. 

*' By all the terrors of the tomb. 
Beyond the power of tongue to tell 3 
By the dread secrets of my womb j 
By Death and Hell 3 

" I charge thee LIVE ! — repent and pray 5 
In dust thine infamy deplore 3 
There yet is mercy 3 — go thy way. 
And sin no more. 

'' Art thou a MOURNER ?— Hast thou known 
The joy of innocent delights. 
Endearing days for ever flown. 
And tranquil nights ? 

" O LIVE ! — and deeply cherish still 
The sweet remembrance of the past : 
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will 
For peace at last. 

''Art thou a WANDERER ?— Hast thou seen 
O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? 
A shipwrecked sufferer hast thou been. 
Misfortune's mark ? 

" Though long of winds and waves the sport. 
Condemned in wretchedness to roam, 
LIVE ! — thou shalt reach a sheltering port, 
A quiet home. 

" To FRIENDSHIP didst thou trust thy fame. 
And was thy friend a deadly foe. 
Who stole into thy breast to aim 
A surer blow ? 

" LIVE ! — and repine not o'er his loss, 
A loss unworthy to be told : 
Thou hast mistaken sordid dross 
For friendship's gold. 

" Seek the true treasure seldom found. 
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm. 
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 
With heavenly balm. 



Montgomery.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 397 

''Did WO]MAN'S charms thy youth beguile. 
And did the fair one faithless prove ? 
Hath she betrayed thee witli a smile^ 
And sold thy love r 

" LIVE ! 'twas a false bewildering fire : 
Too often Love's insidious dart 
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire. 
But kills the heart. 

" Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear. 
To gaze on listening Beauty's eye -, 
To ask, — and pause in hope and fear 
Till she reply. 

" A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 
A brighter maiden faithful prove 3 
Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
In woman's love. 

" — Whate'er thy lot, — whoe'er thou be, — 
Confess thy folly, — kiss the rod. 
And in thy chastening sorrows see 
The hand of GOD. 

*' A bruised reed He will not break ; 
Afflictions all his children feel : 
'He wounds them for his mercy's sake. 
He wounds to heal. 

*' Humbled beneath his might}^ hand. 
Prostrate his Providence adore : 
'Tis done ! — Arise ! HE bids thee stand. 
To fall no more. 

'' Now, Traveller in the vale of tears. 
To realms of everlasting light. 
Through Time's dark wilderness of years. 
Pursue thy flight. 

'• There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for wear)- pilgrims found; 
And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
Low in tlie ground. 



398 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Stanley. 

"The Soul, of origin divine, 
GOD'S glorious image, freed from clay. 
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine 
A star of day. 

" The SUN is but a spark of fire, 
A transient meteor in the sky ; 
The SOUL, immortal as its Sire, 

SHALL NEVER DIE." 

Miscellaneous Poems : The Grave. 



1 68.— THE CONVERSION OF S. AUGUSTINE. 

[Dean Stanley, 1815. 
[Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, born in 1815, and educated at Rugby and at Oxford, 
became Fellow of University College in 1840, was Select Preacher in 1845, ^"^^ 
Canon of Canterbury from 185 1 till 1858. Having been Regius Professor of 
Ecclesiastical History at Oxford, Canon of Christ Church, and Chaplain to the 
Bishop of London, he in 1864 was appointed Dean of Westminster. Dr. Stanley's 
life of Dr. Arnold* was published in 1844. He is the author of numerous Sermons 
and Lectures. His "Historical Memoirs of Canterbury'' appeared in 1854, "Sinai 
and Palestine" in 1855, " Sermons preached in the East" and "Lectures on the 
History of the Jewish Church" in 1863, and " Lectures on the History of the Jewish 
Church," Part II., in 1865.] 

Augustine's youth had been one of reckless self-indulgence. He had 
plunged into the worst sins of the heathen world in which he lived ; 
he had adopted wild opinions to justify those sins 5 and thus, though 
his parents were Christians, he himself remained a heathen in his 
manner of life, though not without some struggles of his better self 
and of God's grace against these evil habits. Often he struggled and 
often he fell ; but he had two advantages which again and again have 
saved souls from ruin, — advantages which no one who enjoys them 
(and how many of us do enjoy them !) can prize too highly, — he had 
a good mother and he had good friends. He had a good mother, who 
wept for him, and prayed for him, and warned him, and gave him 
that advice which only a mother can give, forgotten for the moment, 
but remembered afterwards. And he had good friends, who watched 
every opportunity to encourage better thoughts, and to bring him to 
his better self. In this state of struggle and failure he came to the city 
of Milan, where the Christian community was ruled by a man of fame 
almost equal to that which he himself afterwards won, the celebrated 



* See page 392. 



Stanley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 399 

Ambrose. And now the crisis of his Hfe was come, and it shall be 
described in his own words. He was sitting with his friend, his whole 
soul was shaken with the violence of his inward conflict, — the conflict 
of breaking away from his evil habits, from his evil associates, to a life 
which seemed to him poor, and profitless, and burdensome. Silently 
the two friends sate together, and at last, says Augustine, " When deep 
reflection had brought together and heaped up all my misery in 
the sight of my heart, there arose a mighty storm of grief, bringing a 
mighty shower of tears." He left his friend, that he might weep in 
solitude 5 he threw himself down under a fig-tree in the garden (the 
spot is still pointed out in Milan), and he cried in the bitterness of his 
spirit, '' How long ? how long ? — to-morrow ? to-morrow ? Why not 
now ? — why is there not this hour an end to my uncleanness ?" 
" So was I speaking and weeping in the contrition of my heart," he 
says, " when, lo ! I heard from a neighbouring house a voice as of a 
child, chanting and oft repeating, 'Take up and read, take up and 
read.' Instantly my countenance altered ; I began to think whether 
children were wont in play to sing such words, nor could I remember 
ever to have heard the like. So, checking my tears, I rose, taking it 
to be a command from God to open the book and read the first chapter 

I should find " Eagerly he returned to the place where 

his friend was sitting, for there lay the volume of S. Paul's Epistles, 
which he had just begun to study. '' I seized it," he says, " I opened 
it, and in silence I read that passage on which my eyes first fell. 'Not 
in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in 
strife and envying. But put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not 
provision for thejiesh, to fulfil the lust thereof. ' No further could I read, 
nor needed I ; for instantly, at the end of this sentence, by a serene 
light infused into my soul, all the darkness of doubt vanished away." 

We need not follow the story further. We know how he 
broke off' all his evil courses j how his mother's heart was rejoiced j 
how he was baptized by the great Ambrose 3 how the old tradition 
describes their singing together, as he came up from the baptismal 
waters, the alternate verses of the hymn called from its opening words 
Te Deum Laudamus. We know how the profligate African youth 
was thus transformed into the most illustrious saint of the Western 
Church, how he lived long as the light of his own generation, and 
how his works have been cherished and read by good men, perhaps 
more extensively than those of any Christian teacher, since the 
Apostles. 

It is a story instructive in many ways. It is an example, like the 
conversion of S. Paul, of the fact that from time to time God calls 
His servants not by gradual, but by sudden changes. These conver- 



400 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Brougham. 

sions are, it is true, the exceptions and not the rule of Providence, but 
such examples as Augustine show us that we must acknowledge the 
truth of the exceptions when they do occur. It is also an instance 
how, ev^en in such sudden conversions, previous good influences have 
their weight. The prayers of his mother, the silent influence of his 
friend, the high character of Ambrose, the preparation . for Christian 
truth in tlie writings of heathen philosophers, were ail laid up, as it 
were, waiting for tiie spark, and, when it came, the fire flashed at once 
through ever}^ corner of his soul. It is a striking instance, also, of the 
effect of a single passage of Scripture, suddenly but seriously taken to 
heart. It may come to us as to him, through the voice of a little 
child, or through the prompting of our own conscience, or through the 
recurrence of the words in the church service. . . . The Unity 
of Evangelical and Apostolical Teaching. Sermons, preached mostly 
in Canterbury Cathedral. Sermon x.. The Doctrine of S. Paul. 
Rom. xiii. 12—14. 



169.— CONDITION OF THE CHINESE. 

[Lord Brougham, 1778 — 1868. 
[Henry Brougham, born at Edinburgh, Sep. 19, 1778, \\-as educated at Edinburgh 
Universit)-, and in 1800 ^^-as admitted to the Scottish Bar. He was one of the early 
contributors to the Edinburgh Review, and was called to the English Bar in 1808. 
He was elected member for Camelford in the Whig interest in 1810. From 1812 
till 1816 he was without a seat, but in the latter year was returned for Winchelsea. 
In 1820 and 182 1 he was engaged as Attorney-General to Queen Caroline; in 1825 
was elected Lord P^ector of Glasgow Universit}-, and in 1827 founded the Society for 
the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, and became its first President. In Aug. 1830 he 
was returned for Yorkshire, and having been the same year appointed Lord Chancellor, 
was raised to the peerage. Lord Brougham is the author of numerous works, the 
best known being " Historical Sketches of Statesmen of the Time of George IIL," pub- 
lished in 1839 — 43' " Political Philosophy," in 1840 — 44; and "Lives of Men of 
Letters and Science of the Time of George III.," in 1845 — 6. An edition of his works 
collected by himself appeared at Edinburgh in 1855 — 57. "Albert Lunel; or, the 
Chateau of Languedoc," a novel, suppressed on the eve of publication in 1644, has 
been attributed to him. Lord Brougham died in 1868.] 

Tnfe universal respect in which learning is held, and the privileges 
allowed to it, have not however made the Chinese czvry far their cul- 
tivation of it. They afford, on the contrary, a singular instance of a 
nation early making some progress, and tlien stopping short for ages j 
of a people, all of whom possess the instruments of education, the 
means of acquiring knowledge — a people most of whom have actually 
acquired some knowledge — and yet none of whom have ever gone 
beyond the most elementary studies. This can only be ascribed to the 
absolute form of their government, and the manifest intention which 



Broueham.] OF MODERX Lr2 ERJTi'RE. 401 

the sovereigns h:ive always had to limit the literar}" acquisitions of their 
subjects. The advantages of keeping quiet and indolent a people so 
numerous as to be able to crush almost any ruler, and the means of 
tranquillits^ which elementary lessons like those of Confucius and his 
school bestowed, if tliey \^ere thoroughly learnt, and became, as it 
were, mixed up with the nature of t':e people, could not escape the 
Chinese monarclis. They had a people to deal with \^ hom they found 
it easy to occupy with such pursuits, and with the innumerable customs 
and ceremonies which the sacred WTitings inculcate together with far 
better things. The occupation was more than harmless — it was most 
useful in extinguishing tierce and turbulent spirits j and the lessons 
taught were those of absolute submission to the magistrates, though 
seasoned with so much other doctrine as prevented them from wearing 
the appearance of a mere design to secure subordination. Beyond the 
learning of those books, therefore, the government had no desire that 
Chinese education should be carried. Accordingly, true orthodoxy is 
closely contined to the books of Confucius and JNIencius, and one or 
tr-.vo commentators on tliem ; and the government discountenances by 
every means the acquisition of any other learning. This is the main 
cause of the stationary knowledge of the Chinese 3 and one of the 
most powerful means used by tlie government to keep it tlius stationary 
is the preventing of almost all intercourse with foreign nations. 

The amount of the learning contained in those WTitings is very 
moderate. ]Many of the maxims are admirable ; some indeed closely 
resembling those of our own religion. Thus Confucius distinctly 
enjoins the duty of doing unto others as we would be done to by thenij 
nor can anything be more urgent than his injunction to watch the 
secret thoughts ot the heart as the fountains of evil. It is also an 
admirable precept of his to judge ourselves with the severitv^ we apply 
to others ; and to judge others as mercifully as we do ourselves. But 
there are \\icked doctrines mixed with this pure wisdom, as when men 
are commanded not to live under the same sky with a father's assassin ; 
and besides, the merit of all moral maxims is much more in the acting 
upon them than the laying them down. Wisdom is, properly speaking, 
the doing what wise sayings recommend ; and he has made but a small 
progTess in philosophy — even in the philosophy of morals — who has 
only stored his memory with all the proverbs of Franklin and all the 
morals of ^tsop. There are few men so ignorant as not to know the 
substance of these aphorisms, though they may never have seen them 
put in terse language, or illustrated by apt comparisons. The difficulty 
really lies in acting up to them. Therefore the learning to which the 
Chinese almost entirely devote themselves is of a very trifling nature 



402 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Brougham. 

at best. Some of it indeed is positively useless. The Li-ki, or book 
of rites and customs, contains three thousand of these, all of which 
are to be learnt and to be scrupulously observed 3 and there is a 
council of state with the exclusive office of seeing that this observance 
is complete — a manifest contrivance of the government to occupy the 
people with frivolous and harmless studies. 

It thus happens that the Chinese, after having, long before any other 
of the nations now deemed most refined, made a considerable progress 
in knowledge and still more in the arts, have stopped short as it were 
on the threshold, and never attempted the rank of a learned or even 
a very polished nation. Acquainted with paper-making for above 
seventeen centuries, with printing for more than nine, they have hardly 
produced a book which could fix the attention of a European reader 
in the present day 5 and yet learning is the passport to political honours, 
and even to power, among them ; and books are so highly valued that 
it is part of their religious observances never to suffer the treading on, 
or irreverent treatment of, a scrap of printed or written paper how 
worthless soever. Possessed of the mariner's compass twelve hundred 
years before it was known in Europe, they have scarcely ever put it to 
the use which it really can best serve, but creep along their coasts, from 
headland to headland, like the most ignorant of the South Sea 
islanders, and rather employ it on shore, where other marks might 
better serve to guide them. With a kind of glass, or something as 
near good glass as possible, for ages, they never have yet succeeded in 
making that most useful and beautiful product of the arts in its trans- 
parent state and plastic fabric. Capable of copying the works of the 
pencil with a minuteness which seems preternatural, both as to colour 
and form, they are wholly without invention, and, left to themselves, 
can make nothing like an imitation of nature. Nor in the severer 
sciences have they made any progress beyond the very first elements, 
although they have know^n one or two of the fundamental truths in 
geometry for hundreds of years, by induction rather than demonstration, 
and could calculate eclipses of the heavenly bodies long before any 
other nation had emerged from barbarism. It is equally certain, 
however, that the amount of knowledge which they have so long 
attained, the repute in which they have been taught to hold the quiet 
and sedulous pursuit of it, and the devotion of their attention to it 
within certain limits, joined to the being debarred from all foreign 
intercourse, have produced all the effect that could be desired by their 
rulers ; it has so far reclaimed them from the turbulent state of 
uncivilized tribes as to make them easily ruled, by keeping them quiet, 
sedentary, inactive,' even pusillanimous, without unfolding their faculties 




Wood.] OF MODERN LTTEILiTURE. 403 

or increasing their kno\^ledge in any degree likelr to endanger the 
security of a system founded mainly upon the permanent position of 
all and each of its -pans.— Political Philosophi/. Vol. i, chap, vi , Govern- 
ment of China. 



170.— MR. GALLOTVAY AND HIS CLERKS. 

[Mrs. Hexry Wood,. 1S20. 

[Mrs. Hexry Wood, the youngest daughter of Mr. Thomas Price, formerly head of 
a manufacturing firm, ^vas bom in Worcestershire in 1820, and married to Mr. 
Henrv Wood at sm early age. She commenced her literary career as a contributor 
to various periodicals. Her first novel, ''Danesbury House," which gained the 
Scottish Temperance prize of i'loo, appeared in i860. It was followed by "East 
Lj-nne," published in 1861 ; '"'The Channings" in 1S62 ; and numerous works.] 

Of beaut}', Mr, Galloway could boast Httle ; but of his hair he was 
moderatelv vain : a very good head of hair it was, curling naturally. 
But hair, let it be luxuriant enough to excite the admiration of a 
whole army of coiffeurs, is, like other things in this sublunar}^ world 
of ours, subject to change j it will not last for ever ; and ^Nlr. Gallo- 
way's, from a fine and glossy brown, turned, as years went on, to 
sober grey — nay, almost to white. He did not particularly admire 
the change, but he had to submit to it -. Nature is stronger than we 
are. A triend hinted that it might be 'dyed.' Mr. Galloway re- 
sented the suggestion : anything false was abhorrent to him. When, 
however, after an illness, his hair began to fall off alarmingly, he 
thought it no harm to use a certain specific, emanating fi-om one of 
Her Majesty's physicians ; extensively set forth and patronized as an 
undoubted remedy for the falhng off" of hair. Mr. Galloway used it 
extensively in his fear, for he had an equal dread both of baldness and 
wigs. The lotion not only had the desired effect, but it had more : 
the hair grew on again luxuriantly, and its grey-whiteness turned into 
the finest flaxen you ever saw ; a light delicate shade of flaxen, 
exactly like the curls you see upon the heads of blue-eyed wax dolls. 
This is a fact : and whether ]Mr. Galloway liked it, or not, he had to 
put up with it. Many would not be persuaded but what he -had used 
some delicate preparation of dye, hitherto unknown to science : and 
the suspicion vexed Mr. Galloway. Behold him, therefore, with a 
perfect shower of smoodi, fair curls upon his head, like any young 
beau. 

It was in this gentleman's office that Arthur Channing had been 
placed, with a view to his becoming ultimately a proctor. To article 

D D 2 



404 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Wood. 

him to Mr. Galloway would take a good round sum of money ; and 
this had been put off until the termination of the suit, when Mr. 
Channing had looked forward to being at his ease, in regard to pecu- 
niary means. There were two others in the same office : the one 
was Roland Yorke, who was articled ; the other was Joseph Jenkins, 
a thin, spare, humble man of nine-and-thirty, who had served Mr, 
Galloway for nearly twenty years, earning twenty-five shillings per 
week. He was a son of old Jenkins the bedesman, and his wife 
kept a small hosiery shop in High Street. Roland Yorke was, of 
course, not paid ; on the contrary, he had paid pretty smartly to Mr. 
Galloway for the privilege of being initiated into the mysteries per- 
taining to "a proctor. Arthur Channing may be said to have occupied 
a position in the office midway between the two. He was to become 
on the footing of Roland Yorke ; but meanwhile, he received a small 
sum weekly, in remuneration of his services, like Joe Jenkins did. 
Roland Yorke, in his proud moods, looked down upon him as a paid 
clerk 5 Mr. Jenkins looked up to him as a gentleman. It was a 
somewhat anomalous position j but Arthur had held his own bravely 
up in it until this blow came, looking forward to a brighter time. 

In the years gone by, one of the stalls in Helstonleigh Cathedral 
was held by the Reverend Dr. Yorke : he had also some time 
filled the office of sub-dean. He had married, imprudently, the 
daughter of an Irish peer, a pretty, good-tempered girl, who was as 
fond of extravagance as she was devoid of means to support it. She 
had not a shilling j it was even said that the bills for her wedding 
clothes came in afterwards to Dr. Yorke : but people, you know, are 
given to talk scandal. Want of fortune had been nothing, had Lady 
Augusta but possessed common prudence ; but she spent the doctor's 
money faster than it came in. In the course of years Dr. Yorke died, 
leaving eight children, and slender means for them. There were six 
boys and two girls. Lady Augusta went to reside in a cheap and 
roomy house (somewhat dilapidated) in the Boundaries, close to her 
old prebendal residence, and scrambled on in her careless, spending 
fashion, never out of debt. She retained their old barouche, and 
would retain it, and was a great deal too fond of ordering horses from 
the livery stables and driving out in state. Gifted with good parts and 
qualities had her children been born j but of training, in the highest 
sense of the word, she had given them none. George, the eldest, had 
a commission, and was away with his regiment j Roland, the second, 
had been designed for the Church, but no persuasion could induce 
him to be sufficiently attentive to his studies to qualify himself for it j 
he was therefore placed with Mr. Galloway, and the Church honours 
were now intended for Gerald. The fourth son, Theodore, was also in 



Hume.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 405 

the college school, a junior. Next came two girls, Caroline and Fanny, 
and there were two little boys younger. Haughty, self-willed, but of 
sufficiently honourable nature, were the Yorkes. If Lady Augusta 
had but toiled to foster the good, and eradicate the evil, they would 
have grown up to bless her. Good soil was there to work upon, as 
there was in the Channings ; but, in the case of the Yorkes, it was 
allowed to run to waste, or to generate weeds. In short, to do as it 
pleased. — The Channings, chap, v. 



171,— SIMON DE MONTFORT, EARL OF LEICESTER. 

[Hume, 171 1 — 1776. 

[David Hume, born at Edinburgh, April 26, 1711, was educated at the university of 
that city. His friends wished him to study law. For a short time, in 1734, he was 
placed in a mercantile house, but he resolved to devote himself to literarj^ pursuits, 
and went to France to study. In 1737 he returned to London, where his first work, 
a "Treatise on Human Nature," was published in 1739. The first volume of 
his "Essays" appeared in 1741. The first volume of his "History of England," 
containing the reigns of James I. and Charles i. was published at Edinburgh in 
1754; the second volume appeared in 1756; the third and fourth volumes, con- 
taining the history of the House of Tudor, in 1759 j ^'^^ -^^ ^^^ ^^"^ sixth, con- 
taining the earlier history of the country, in 1762. Hume was appointed Under- 
Secretary of State in 1766. Resigning this appointment in 1769, he retired to 
Edinburgh, where he died Aug. 25, 1776. His history, which has gone through 
numerous editions, was continued to the death of George II. by Smollett, and to 
the reign of Queen Victoria by the Rev. T. S. Hughes. Hume's autobiography, edited 
by Adam Smith, was published in 1777. His "Life," by T. E. Ritchie, appeared 
in 1807, and his "Life and Correspondence, from papers bequeathed by his nephew 
to the Royal Society of Edinburgh," edited by J, H. Burton, in 1847.] 

All these imprudent and illegal measures afforded a pretence to 
Simon de Mountfort,* Earl of Leicester, to attempt an innovation in 
the government, and to wrest the sceptre from the feeble and irreso- 
lute hand which held it (1258). This nobleman was a younger son 
of that Simon de Mountfort, who had conducted with such valour and 
renown the crusade against the Albigenses 3 and who, though he tar- 
nished his famous exploits by cruelty and ambition, had left a name 
very precious to all the bigots of that age, particularly to the 
ecclesiastics. A large inheritance in England fell by succession to 
this family ; but as the elder brother enjoyed still more opulent 
possessions in France, and could not perform fealty to two masters, he 
transferred his right to Simon, his younger brother, who came over to 



The earlitr orthography. 



4o6 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Hume. 



England, did homage for his lands, and was raised to the dignity of 
earl of Leicester. In the year 1238, he espoused Eleanor, dowager 
of William, earl of Pembroke, and sister to the king ; but the 
marriage of this princess with a subject and a foreigner, though con- 
tracted with Henry's consent, was loudly complained of by the earl 
of Cornwall and all the barons of England ; and Leicester was sup- 
ported against their violence by the king's favour and authority alone. 
But he had no sooner established himself in his possessions and digni- 
ties, than he acquired, by insinuation and address, a strong interest with 
the nation, and gained equally the affections of all orders of men : he 
lost, however, the friendship of Henry from the usual levity and 
fickleness of that prince ; he was banished the court : he was recalled , 
he -was entrusted with the command of Guienne, when he did good 
service and acquired honour 3 he was again disgraced by the king, and 
his banishment from court seemed now final and irrevocable. Henry 
called him traitor to his face 3 Leicester gave him the lie 3 and told 
him that if he were not his sovereign, he would soon make him 
repent of that insult : yet was this quarrel accommodated, either from 
the good nature or timidity of the king 3 and Leicester was again 
admitted into some degree of favour and authority: but, as this noble- 
man was become too great to preserve an entire complaisance to 
Henry's humours, and to act in subserviency to his other minions 3 he 
found more advantage in cultivating his interest with the public, and 
in inflaming the general discontents which prevailed against the ad- 
ministration. He filled every place with complaints against the 
infringement of the Great Charter, the acts of violence committed on 
the people, the combination between the pope and the king in their 
tyranny and extortions, Henry's neglect of his native subjects and 
barons 3 and, though himself a foreigner, he was more loud than any 
in representing the indignity of submitting to the dominion of 
foreigners. By his hypocritical pretensions to devotion he gained the 
favour of the zealots and clergy 3 by his seeming concern for public 
good he acquired the affections of the public 3 and, besides the pri- 
vate friendships which he had cultivated with the barons, his ani- 
mosity against the favourites created a union of interests between 
him and that powerful order. 

A, recent quarrel which broke out between Leicester and William 
de Valence, Henry's half-brother, and chief favourite, brought matters 
to extremity, and determined the former to give full scope to his bold 
and unbounded ambition, which the laws and the king's authority had 
hitherto with difficulty restrained. He secretly called a meeting of 
the most considerable barons, particularly Humphrey de Bohun high 
constable, Roger Bigod earl mareschal, and the earls of Warwick 



Hume.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 407 

and Gloucester 3 men who by their family and possessions stood in the 
first rank of tlie English nobility. He represented to this company the 
necessity of reforming the state, and of putting the execution of the 
laws into other hands than those which had hitherto appeared, from 
repeated experience, so unfit for the charge with which they were 
entrusted : he exaggerated the oppressions exercised against the lower 
orders of the state, the violations of the barons' privileges, the con- 
tinued depredations made on the clergy 5 and, in order to aggravate 
the enormity of his conduct, he appealed to the Great Charter, which 
Henr)^ had so often ratified, and which was calculated to prevent for 
ever the return of those intolerable grievances : he magnified the 
generosity of their ancestors, who, at a great expense of blood, had 
extorted that famous concession from the crown 3 but lamented their 
own degeneracy, who allowed so important an advantage, once ob- 
tained, to be wrested from them by a weak prince and by insolent 
strangers: and he insisted, that the king's word, after so many sub- 
missions and fruitless promises on his part, could no longer be relied 
on j and that nothing but his absolute inability to violate national 
privileges could thenceforth ensure the regular observance of them. 

These topics, which were founded in truth, and suited so well the 
sentiments of the company, had the desired effect 3 and the barons 
embraced a resolution of redressing the public grievances, by taking 
into their own hands the administration of government. Henry 
having summoned a parliament, in expectation of receiving supplies 
for his Sicilian project, the barons appeared in the hall, clad in com- 
plete armour, and with their swords by their side. The king, on his 
entry, struck with the unusual appearance, asked them what was their 
purpose, and whether they pretended to make him their prisoner : 
Roger Bigod replied, in the name of the rest, that he was not their 
prisoner, but their sovereign 3 that they even intended to grant him 
large supphes, in order to fix his son on the throne of Sicily 3 that they 
only expected some return for this expense and service 3 and that, as 
he had frequently made submissions to the parliament, had acknow- 
ledged his past errors, and had still allowed himself to be carried into 
the same path, which gave them such just reason of complaint 3 he 
must now yield to more strict regulations, and confer authority on 
those who were able and willing to redress the national grievances. 
Henry, partly allured by the hopes of supply, and partly intimidated 
by the union and martial appearance of the barons, agreed to their 
demand 3 and promised to summon another parliament at Oxford, in 
order to digest the new plan of government, and to elect the persons 
who were to be entrusted with the chief authority. — History of 
Eugland, chap. xii. § ii. 



4oS THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Barrow. 



172.— THE JAVANESE. 

[Sir John Barrow, 1764 — 1848. ', 

[JoHX Barrow, bom at Drayley-Beck, in Lancashire, June 19, 1764, at first followed 
the profession of a schoolmaster. He ^^-as appointed private Secretar)- to Lord 
Macartney in his embassy to China, and afterwards accompanied Lord Macartney to 
the Cape of Good Hope. In 1804 he was appointed Secretar\- to the Admiralty, 
and in this position promoted the advancement of geographical or scientific know- 
ledge. He >vas created a baronet in 1S35, '^'^^ ^^^^ Nov. 23, 1848. His "Account 
of Travels into the Interior of Southern Africa in the Years 1797 and 1798'' 
appeared in 1801 — 4; his "Travels in China" in 1806; "A Voyage to Cochin 
China in the Years 1792 and 1793" in 1806; his "Life of Lord Macartney" in 
iSoS; and his " Chronological History' of Voyages into the Polar Regions" in 1818. 
He published "An Autobiographical Memoir" in 1847.] 

The Javanese are, in general, about the middle size of Europeans, 
straight and well made^ all their joints, their hands and their feet, 
remarkably small ; the colour of their skin a deep broA^n, approaching 
to black ; tlieir eves are black and prominent ; the nose rather broad, 
and somewhat flattened ; the upper lip a little projecting, not much 
tliickened, but highly arched. They have a firm steady gait, and seem 
to feel, or at least to all'ect, a superiority over the other inhabitants of 
the island. They rub the head, the face and other parts of the body 
that are not covered \\ith clothing, with a composition of cocoa-nut 
oil and sandal \Aood dust, as a preventive against a too copious perspi- 
ration, and the biting of mosquitoes and other annoying insects. 

They are remarkably temperate in their diet, but neither their tem- 
perance nor their moderate labour seems to have the effect of promoting 
longevity. Females usually marry at ten or twelve years of age, 
till which time they go nearly naked, wearing only a belt round their 
loins, with a broad metal plate in front, of an oval or circular form, 
and sometimes shaped like a heart. Sometimes they wear rings or 
bracelets round the wrist, chains about the neck, and chaplets of 
flowers in the hair. When a girl is espoused, she is clad in a loose 
flowing robe, variously ornamented according to the circumstances of 
her parents, her hair is more tlian usually decorated with flowers, and 
smoothed wixh. a profusion of paste and cocoa-nut oil. In tliis dress 
she rides about the to\^"n or village, mounted on horseback, and, as 
emblematic of her chastity, the animal is always a ^hite one, when 
such is to be had ; and she is accompanied by all tlie friends, the rela- 
tions and tlie slaves of both families, and a band of music. But this 
is often her last public exliibition ; for, if she marries into a family of 
condition, she is then shut up for the remainder of her life. 

The diet of the Javanese forms a great contrast with that of the 
Dutch. A considerable part of it consists in rice, sometimes fried in 



Herschel.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 409 

oil, and sometinies boiled in plain water, with which are used a few 
capsules or heads of Capsiaim or Cayenne pepper, and a little salt, to 
render more palatable this Insipid grain. With the use of animal food 
a true Javanese is whoUy unacquainted, and of milk he is very sparing, 
except indeed of that liquid substance, sometimes though improperly 
so called, which abounds in the young cocoa-nut, and which affords a 
cool and refreshing draught. This tree, and indeed most of the palm 
tribe, as the date, the sago, and the areca, all supply him .with solid 
food. The chief use of the areca, however, is only as an ingredient 
in a compound masticatory, consisting, besides this nut, of chunam 
or lime of sheUs and seriloo or seeds of long pepper, made into a 
paste and rolled up in the green leaf of betel pepper. This compo- 
sition, when moistened in the mouth, communicates to the tongue and 
lips a deep red colour, which turns afterwards to a dark mahogany 
brown. The teeth of a Javanese being painted black (because 
monkeys, he observes, have white ones) give to the countenance rather 
a hideous appearance. — A P^oyage to Cochin China in 1792 and 1793. 
Chap, viii., Batavda. 



173— COMETS. 

[Sir J. F. W, Herschel, Bt., 1790. 
[JoHX Frederick William Herschel, bom at Slough, near Windsor, in 1790, 
educated at St, John's, Cambridge, was Senior Wrangler and Smith's Prizeman in 
1813. He devoted himself to mathematics and astronomy, and in 1826 received a 
gold medal from the Astronomical Societv for his observations on double stars. His 
"Transactions of the Astronomical Society-" appeared in 1830. The Astronomical 
Society again awarded him, in 1836, their gold medal for his Catalogue of 
Nebulae. In 1834 he went to the Cape of Good Hope for the purpose of 
examining the southern celestial hemisphere, and he completed his observations in 
1838. His work giving an account of these valuable labours was published in 1847. 
His "Treatise on Astronomy" appeared in 1833; his "Manual of Scientific 
Inquiry" in 1849; ^^d his "Outlines of Astronomy" in 1849. He was made a 
baronet in 1838, became President of the Royal Society in 1843, ^^^^ of the Royal 
Astronomical Society in 1848, was appointed Master" of the Mint in 1850, and 
resigned in 1855. Hallam (Lit. Hist. Part iii. ch. iii. § 61) remarks, " Sir John 
Herschel in his admirable Discourse on Natural Philosophy,* has added a greater 
number [of illustrations] from still more recent discoveries, and has also furnished 
such a luminous development of the difficulties of the Novum Organum, as had 
been vainly hoped in former times."] 

That feehngs of awe and astonishment should be excited by the 
sudden and unexpected appearance of a great comet, is no way sur- 
prising 3 being, in fact, according to the accounts we have of such 



* Published in 1830. 



4TO THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [HosdifiL 

erents, one of the most imposing of all natural phenomena. Comets 
consist for the most part of a large and more or less splendid, but ill- 
defined nebulous mass of light, called the bead, which is nsnallj much 
brighter towards its center, and offers the appearance of a viyM 
nucleus, like a star or planet. From the head, and in a djrBcdia» 
opposite to that in which the sun is situated, from tbe comet appear to 
diverge tw"o streams of ligbt, which grow broader and more drffased 
at a distance from the bead, and which most commonly close in and 
unite at a little distance behind it, but sometimes continue distinct for 
a great part of their course : producing an effect like that " 
trains left by some bright meteors, or like the diverging fire o: . 
rocket (only without sparks or perceptible motion). This is tht; laiL 
This magnificent appendage attains occasionally an immense apparaaat 
length. Aristotle relates of the tail of the comet of 371 b.c.^ that it 
occupied a third of the hemisphere, or 60° 5 that of a.d. 161 8 is 
stated to have been attended by a train no less than 104° in length. 
The comet of 1680, the most celebrated of modem times, and tm 
many accounts the most remarkable of all, with a head not exceeding 
in brightness a star of the second magnitude, covered Tsiith its tail an 
extent of more than 70^ of the heavens, or, as some accounts state, 
90" 5 that of the comet of 1769 extended 97°, and that of tbe ibst 
great comet (1843) ^^^ estimated at about 6^'' when longest TSjc 
figure* {Fig. 2, Plate ii.) is a representation of the comet of 1819 — loj 
no means one of the most considerable, but which was, however^ very- 
conspicuous to the naked eye. 

The tail is, hoA^-ever, hj no means an invariable appendage of 
comets. Many of the brightest have been obsen'ed to have short and 
feeble tails, and a few great comets have been entirely without li^ma. 
Those of 1585 and 1763 offered no vestige of a tail; and Casfiama de- 
scribes the comets of 1665 and J682 as being as round and 2^ indSi 
defined as Jupiter. On the other hand, instances are not wanting of 
comets furnished with many taQs or streams of diverging lighL llaat 
of 1744 had no less than six, spread out like an immense fan, exteiDi&ig 
to a distance of near!}- 30° in length. The small comet of 1B23 lad 
two, making an angle of about j 60°, the brighter turned as usual fi-oia 
the sun, the fainter towards it, or nearly so. The taik of comete, toa^ 
are often some-w'hat cun'ed, bending, in general, t^amrsaoiAs tb& 'VOffom. 
\^•hich the comel has left, as if moving somewhat more slowly, tar a» if 
resisted in tbor course. 

The smaller comets, such as are visible csb^ in telescopes, or with 



* The plate is riven in tht original work. 



Shakespeare.] 



'CODERS LiTI 



4" 



difficulty tv -i -::/.- rjr. ::-.:. - :: :J: :.- :- :"- :s, ::::^: ::■--::.■- 
o££^Teij ::z :j :.: :v vr-^r^ur ::".■. -7y----' - -■- -y-:'-r. 

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where, ho-^ r : r y - " - -^^^ - ?: : :: ".: r.:?^ : ^2; i^ ::^ 
which seez:- : r ir considered as a solid bcxlj. — Outlimes of 

Aftronomif, r_:: I, :_^:. x.. i§ j^6 — 8. 



I7+-- 



[WlLLIiM SHAKK??i:i; 

at *- the Kir r'? Nevr : 
to havelef: r r : : : 

is sui^-ixsse.:: : ; r:/ ~ : - 



iJINCOUrii. 



:ia£, 1564 — 1616. 

1^* prohal^ edoeaiEd 

— 1582, is fadieced 

:~rme£n^polis be 

:fidafs,asid be 

:h bad been 

jf 1623, 

:6:3, in 



-; .3Storal? 

* More musical th~ : 
Wben wheat is s:: ; 

\llio, like him, could so Metbc:: 
chaiaucters Hing so widefy apait :: 
and Queen. Kathaiine, Fal^taff a: 
sQ^e of Shakespeare with that of i 
at the Method Xrj which he w^ 
whtcfa are as (irdh now as in tht 



naj, wnicD are at tne pie>ent 



* April 23 is : 

t 



-reoeiT»:d date. 



412 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Shakespeare. 

moment at once more energetic, more expressive, more natural, and more elegant, 
than those of the happiest and most admired living speakers or writers. 

" But Shakespeare was ' not Methodical in the structure of his Fable.' Oh, gentle 
critic ! be advised. Do not trust too much to your professional dexterity in the 
use of the scalping knife and tomahawk. Weapons of diviner mould are wielded 
by your adversary: and you are meeting him here on his own peculiar ground, the 
ground of Idea, of Thought, and of inspiration. The very point of this dispute is 
Ideal. The question is one of Unity : and Unity, as we have shown, is wholly the 
subject of Ideal law. There are said to be three great Unities which Shakespeare 
has violated; those of Time, Place, and Action. Now the Unities of Time and 
Place we will not dispute about. Be ours the Poet, 

* qui pectus inaniter angit 
Jrritat, mulcet, falsis terrorihus implet 
Ut magus, et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.' 

The Dramatist who circumscribes himself within that unity of Time which is 
regulated by a stop-watch, may be exact-, but is not Methodical; or his Method is of 
the least and lowest class. But 

' Where is he living, dipt in with the sea 
That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland,' 

who can transpose the scenes of Macbeth, and make the seated heart knock at the 
ribs with the same force as now it does, when the mysterious tale is conducted from 
the open heath, on which the Weird Sisters are ushered in with thunder and 
lightning, to the fatal fight of Dunsinane, in which their victim expiates with life, 
his credulity and his ambition ?"] 

Henry V. No, my fair cousin : 

If we are marked to die^ we are enough 
To do our country loss ; and if to live. 
The fewer men the greater share of honour. 
God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more. 
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold 3 
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost 5 
It yearns me not if men my garments wear 3 
Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 
But if it be a sin to covet honour 
I am the most offending soul alive. 
No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England : 
God's peace ! I would not lose so great an honour. 
As one man more, methinks, would share from me. 
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more : 
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland,* through my host. 
That he which hath no stomach to this fi»ht 



* This speech, delivered in the English camp before the army, is in reply to tlie Earl 
of Westmoreland, who, as Henry V. entered, had expressed the wish 

" O that we now had here 
But one ten thousand of those men in England 
That do no work to-day !" 



Bp. Pearson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 413 

Let him depart ; his passport shall be made. 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse : 

We would not die in that man's company 

That fears his fellowship to die with us. 

This day is called the feast of Crispian : 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe hom3. 

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named. 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall see this day, and live old age,* 

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 

And say, to-morrow is saint Crispian : 

Then will he strip his sleeve, and shew his scars : 

Old men forget j yet all shall be forgot. 

But he 11 remember, with advantages. 

What feats he did that day : Then shall our names. 

Familiar in hisf mouth as household words, — 

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster, — 

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered : 

This story shall the good man teach his son j 

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by. 

From this day to the ending of the world. 

But we in it shall be remembered : 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers j 

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 

Shall be my brother j be he ne'er so vile 

This day shall gentle his condition : 

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed. 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here j 

And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks 

That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day. 

King Henry V., Act iv. Sc. 3. 



175.— CHRIST'S ASCENSION. 

[Bp. Pearson, 1613 — 1686. 

[John Pearson, born at Snoring, Norfolk, in 1612, and educated at Eton and at Cam- 
bridge, took orders in T639. He was made a prebend of Salisbury, and having 



* In some modern editions the line reads. 

He that shall live this day and see old age. 
The quarto has, 

He that outlives this day, and sees old age. 

t Referring to the soldier who takes part in the fight and returns safe home. 



414 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Bp. Pearson. 



acted as Chaplain to Lord Keeper Finch and to other leading men, was in 1650 
appointed to the living of St. Clement's, East Cheap. After the Restoration his rise 
was rapid, and with other preferment he was appointed Margaret - Professor of 
Divinity in i66t. Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1662, and Bishop of 
Chester in 1673. His best known work, "An Exposition of the Creed," was pub- 
lished in I 659, and was afterwards revised and enlarged. " Pearson's Minor Theo- 
logical Works," with' Memoir, Notes by E. Churton, appeared at Oxford in 1842. 
Bishop Burnet considers Pearson " in all respects the greatest divine of his age," and 
Hallam terms his "Exposition of the Creed" "a standard book in English divinity." 
Bishop Pearson died July 16, 1686.] 

The ascent of Christ into heaven was not metaphorical or figurative, 
as if there were no more to be understood by it^ but only that he ob- 
tained a more heavenly and glorious state or condition after his resur- 
rection. For whatsoever alteration was made in the body of Christ 
when he rose, whatsoever glorious qualities it was invested with there- 
by, that was not his ascension, as appeareth by those words which 
he spake to Mary, Touch me not, for I am not yet ascended to my 
Father,^ Although he had said before to Nicodemus, No man 
\_hath'] ascended up to heaven, hut he that came down from heaven, even 
the Son of man which is in heaven ;\ which words imply that 
he had then ascended ; yet even those concern not this ascension. 
For that was therefore only true, because the Son of Man, not yet 
conceived in the Virgin's womb, was not in heaven, and after his con- 
ception by virtue of the hypostatical union was in heaven : from 
whence, speaking after the manner of men, he might well say, that he 
had ascended into heaven 5 because whatsoever was first on earth and 
then in heaven, we say ascended into heaven. Wherefore, beside that 
grounded upon the hypostatical union, beside that glorious condition 
upon his resurrection, there was yet another, and that more proper 
ascension : for after he had both those ways ascended, it was still true 
that he had not yet ascended to his Father. 

Now this kind of ascension, by which Christ had not yet ascended 
when he spake to Mary after his resurrection, was not long after to be 
performed ; for at the same time he said unto Mary, Go to my brethren, 
and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father and your Father.X And 
when this ascension was performed, it appeared manifestly to be a true 
local translation of the Son of Man, as man, from these parts of the 
world below into the heaven above j by which that body, which was 
before locally present here on earth, and was not so then present in 
heaven, became substantially present in heaven, and no longer locally 
present in earth. For when he had spoken unto the disciples, and 
blessed them, laying his hands upon them, and so was corporally present 



John 



t John iii. 13. 



t John XX. 17, 



Bp. Pearson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 415 

with them, even while he Messed them, he parted from them, and while 
they beheld, he was taken up, and a. cloud received him out of their sight,* 
and so he was carried up into heaven, while they looked steadfastly 
towards heaven, as he went up.f This was a visible departure, as it is 
described ; a real removing of that body of Christ, which was before 
present with the apostles ; and that body living after the resurrection, 
by virtue of that soul which was united to it : and therefore the Son of 
God according to his humanity was really and truly translated from 
these parts below unto the heavens above, which is a proper local 
ascension. 

Thus was Christ's ascension visibly performed in the preseaice and sight 
of the apostles, for the confirmation of the reality and the certainty 
thereof. They did not see him when he rose, but they saw him when 
he ascended ; because an eye-witness was not necessary unto the act 
of his resurrection, but It was necessary unto the act of his ascension. 
It was sufficient that Christ shewed himself to the apostles alive after 
his passion ; % for being they knew him before to be dead, and now saw 
him alive, they were thereby assured that he rose again : for whatso- 
ever was a proof of his life after death, was a demonstration of his 
resurrection. But being the apostles were not to see our Saviour in 
heaven 3 being the session was not to be visible to them on earth j 
therefore it was necessary they should be eye-witnesses of the act, who 
were not with the same eyes to behold the effect. 

Beside the eye-witness of the apostles, there was added the testi- 
mony of the angels ; those blessed spirits which ministered before, and 
saw the face of, God in heaven, and came down from thence, did 
know that Christ ascended up from hence unto that place from whence 
they came : and because the eyes of the apostles could not follow him 
so far, the inhabitanis of that place did come to testify of his recep 
tion 3 for behold two men stood by them in white apparel, which also 
said. Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven ? This 
same Jesus which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like 
manner, as ye have seen him go into heaven.^ We must therefore 
acknowledge and confess against all the wild heresies of old, that the 
eternal Son of God, who died and rose again, did, with the same body 
and soul with which he died and rose, ascend up to heaven 3 which 
was the second particular considerable in this Article. — ^n Exposition 
of the Creed. Article vi. 



* Luke xxiv. 50-51. f Acts i. 9-11. '^ Acts i. 3. 

§ Acts i. 10 and 11. 



41 6 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Blackstone. 

176.— THE LORDS AND COMMONS. 

[Sir W. Blackstone, 1723 — 1780. 

[William Blackstone, the posthumous son of a silk mercer, born in London, 
July 10, 1723, and educated at the Charterhouse and Oxford, was called to the bar 
in 1746. He was appointed Recorder of Wallingford in 1749, first Vinerian Pro- 
fessor of Law in 1758, was made King's Counsel in 1761, and soon after principal of 
New Inn Hall, Oxford. After a very successful career he was knighted and made a 
justice of the Court of Common Pleas in 1770. His "Commentaries on the Laws 
of England" appeared at Oxford in 1765-9. Sir W. Jones speaks of them as 
"the most correct and beautiful outline that ever was exhibited in any human 
science." Sir William Blackstone died Feb. 14, 1780.] 

The lords temporal consist of all the peers of the realm (the bishops 
not being in strictness held to be such, but merely lords of parliament) 
by whatever title of nobility distiiiguished, dukes, marquises, earls, 
viscomits, or barons. Some of these sit by descent, as do all ancient 
peers 3 some by creation, as do all new-made ones 3 others, since the 
union with Scotland, by election, which is the case of the sixteen 
peers, who represent the body of the Scots nobility. Their number* 
is indefinite, and may be increased at will by the power of the crown 3 
and once, in the reign of Queen Anne, there was an instance of creat- 
ing no less than tv/elve together 3 in contemplation of v/hich, in the 
reign of King George the First a bill passed the house of lords, and 
was countenanced by the then ministry, for limiting the number of the 
peerage. This was thought, by some, to promise a great acquisition to 
the constitution, by restraining the prerogative from gaining the 
ascendant in that august assembly, by pouring in at pleasure an un- 
limited number of new created lords. But the bill was ill-relished, and 
miscarried in the house of commons, whose leading members were 
then desirous to keep the avenues to the other house as open and easy 
as possible. 

The distinction of rank and honour is necessary in every well- 
governed state, in order to reward such as are eminent for their ser- 
vices to the public, in a manner the most desirable to individuals, and 
yet without burden to the community 3 exciting thereby an ambitious 
yet laudable ardour, and generous emulation in others. And emula- 
tion, or virtuous ambition, is a spring of action, which, however dan- 
gerous or invidious in a mere republic, or under a despotic sway, will 
certainly be attended with good effects under a free monarchy, where, 
without destroying its existence, its excesses may be continually re- 
strained by that superior power from which all honour is derived. 



* The number, which varies, is 419 (1868), including 28 representative peers for 
Ireland and 16 for Scotland. There are in addition 30 archbishops and bishops. 



Blackstone.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 4^7 

Such a spirit, when nationally diffused, gives life and vigour to the 
community : it sets all the wheels of government in motion, which, 
under a wise regulator, may be directed to any beneficial purpose j 
and thereby every individual may be made subservient to the pubhc 
good, while he principally means to promote his own particular views. 
A body of nobility is also more peculiarly necessary in our mixed and 
compounded constitution, in order to support the rights of both the crown 
and the people, by forming a barrier to withstand the encroachments 
of both. It creates and preserves that gradual scale of dignity, which 
proceeds from the peasant to the prince ; rising like a pyramid from a 
broad foundation, and diminishing to a point as it rises. It is this 
ascending and contracting proportion that adds stability to any govern- 
ment j for when the departure is sudden from one extreme to 
another, we may pronounce that state to be precarious. The nobility, 
therefore, are the pillars, which are reared from among the people, 
more immediately to support the throne 3 and, if that falls, they must 
also be buried under its ruins. Accordingly, when in the last century* 
the commons had determined to extirpate monarchy, they also voted 
the house of lords to be useless and dangerous. And since titles of 
nobility are thus expedient in the state, it is also expedient that their 
owners should form an independent and separate branch of the legis- 
lature. If they were confounded with the mass of the people, and 
like them had only a vote in electing representatives, their privileges 
would soon be borne down and overwhelmed by the popular torrent, 
which would effectually level all distinctions. It is therefore highly 
necessary that the body of nobles should have a distinct assembly, 
distinct deliberations, and distinct powers from the commons. 

The commons consist of all such men of property in the kingdom, 
as have not seats in the house of lords ; every one of which has a 
voice in parliament, either personally, or by his representatives. In a 
free state every man, who is supposed a free agent, ought to be in some 
measure his own governor ; and therefore a branch at least of the 
legislative power should reside in the whole body of the people. And 
this power, when the territories of the state are small and its citizens 
easily known, should be exercised by the people in their aggregate or 
collective capacity, as was wisely ordained in the petty republics of 
Greece, and the first rudiments of the Roman state. But this will be 
highly inconvenient, when the public territory is extended to any con- 
siderable degree, and the number of citizens is increased. Thus when, 
after the social war, all the burghers of Italy were admitted free citi- 
zens of Rome, and each had a vote in the public assemblies, it became 



* This was written during the eighteenth century. 
£ E 



4i8 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Blackstone. 

impossible to distinguish the spurious from the real voter: and from 
that time all elections and popular deliberations grew tumultuous and 
disorderly ; which paved the way for Marius and Sylla, Pompey and 
Caesar, to trample on the liberties of their country, and at last to dis- 
solve the commonwealth. In so large a state as ours, it is therefore 
very wisely contrived that the people should do that by their repre- 
sentatives, which it is impracticable to perform in person j representa- 
tives, chosen by a number of minute and separate districts, wherein all 
the voters are, or easily may be, distinguished. The counties are there- 
fore represented by knights, elected by the proprietors of lands 5 the 
cities and boroughs are represented by citizens and burgesses, chosen 
by the mercantile part, or supposed trading interest of the nation ; 
much in the same manner as the burghers in the diet of Sweden are 
chosen by the corporate towns, Stockholm sending four, as London 
does with us, other cities two, and some only one. The number 
of English representatives is ^13, and of Scots 453 in all 558.* 
And every member, though chosen by one particular district, when 
elected and returned, serves for the whole realm -, for the end of his 
coming thither is not particular, but general -, not barely to advantage 
his constituents, but the common wealth ; to advise his majesty (as 
appears from the writ of summons) '' de communi consilio super nego- 
tiis quibusdam arduis et urgentihus, regem, statum, et defensionem 
regni Anglice et ecclesice Anglicance concernentilus,^' And therefore 
he is not bound, like a deputy in the united provinces, to consult with, 
or take the advice of, his constituents upon any particular point, unless 
he himself thinks it proper or prudent so to do. — Commentaries on the 
Laws of England, Vol. i.. Book i., ch. ii. 



* This was written before the union with Ireland, for which too members were 
added to the House of Commons. After the passing of the Reform Bill in 1832 the 
House of Commons was thus constituted : — 

Members. 
England and Wales ....... 500 

Ireland 105 

Scotland 53 

658 

Sudbury, returning two members, was disfranchised in 1848, and St. Albans, return- 
ing two, in 1852, These vacant seats were in 1861 allotted thus, two to the West 
Riding of Yorkshire, one to South Lancashire, and one to Birkenhead. 



Lever.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 419 



177.— AN IRISH JOCKEY. 

[Lever, 1809— 1870. 

[Charles James Lever, born in Dublin, Aug. 31, 1806, and educated at Cambridge, 
was brought up to the medical profession. In 1832, he was appointed medical 
superintendent of a populous district in Ireland, and was afterwards attached to the 
Legation at Brussels as physician, lie edited the " Dublin University Magazine" 
from 1842 till 1845. The first number of " Harry Lorrequer/' his first work, pub- 
lished anonymously, appeared in 1839. T^^^^ was followed by "Charles O'Malley," 
in,i84l, and a variety of popular works of fiction. He was appointed vice-consul 
at Spezia, Nov. 26, 1858, and was promoted to Trieste in 1867. Died 1870.] 

Mr. Ulick Burke — for I need not say it was he — was a well-look- 
ing man, of about eight-and-twenty or thirty years of age. Akhough 
his height was below the middle size, he was powerfully and strongly 
made J his features would have been handsome, were it not for a 
certain expression of vulgar suspicion that played about the eyes, giving 
him a side-long look when he spoke 3 this, and the loss of two front 
teeth, from a fall, disfigured a face originally pleasing. His whiskers 
were large, bushy, and meeting beneath his chin. As to his dress, 
it was in character with his calling j a green coat, cut round in jockey 
fashion, over which he wore a white " bang up," as it was called, in 
one pocket of which was carelessly thrust a lash whip 5 a belcher hand- 
kerchief, knotted loosely about his neck, buckskin breeches, reaching 
far down upon the leg, and top boots completed his costume. I had 
almost forgotten a hat, perhaps the most characteristic thing of all. 
This, which once had been white, was now, by stress of time and 
weather, of a dirty drab colour ; its crown dinged in several places, and 
the leaf jagged and broken, bespoke the hard usage to which it was 
subjected. While speaking, he held it firmly clutched in his ungloved 
hand, and, from time to time, struck it against his thigh with an energy 
of manner that seemed habitual. 

His manner was a mixture of timid embarrassment and vulgar 
assurance, feeling his way, as it were, with one, while he forgot himself 
with the other. With certain remnants of the class he originally 
belonged to, he had associated the low habitudes and slang phraseology 
of his daily associates, making it difficult for one, at first sight, to dis- 
cover to which order he belonged. In the language of his companions 
Ulick Barke '''could be a gentleman when he pleased it." How often 
have we heard this phrase : and with what a fatal mistake is it gene- 
rally applied. He who can be a gentleman when he pleases, never 
.pleases to be anything else. Circumstances may, and do, every day in 
life, throw men of cultivated minds, and refined habits into the society 
of their inferiors ; but while, with the tact and readiness that is their 
especial prerogative, they make themselves welcome among those with 

£ £ 2 



420 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lever. 

whom they have few, if any sympathies in common, yet never by any 
accident do they derogate from that high standard that makes them 
gentlemen. So, on the other hand, the man of vulgar tastes and 
coarse propensities may simulate, if he be able, the outward habitudes 
of society, speaking with practised intonation, and bowing with well- 
studied grace, yet is he no more a gentleman in his thought, or feel- 
ing, than is the tinselled actor, who struts the boards, the monarch his 
costume would bespeak him. This being the " gentleman when he 
likes," is but the mere performance of the character. It has all the 
smell of the orange-peel and the foot-lights about it, and never can be 
mistaken hy any one who knows the world. But to come back to 
Mr. Burke. 

Having eyed me for a second or two, with a look of mingled 
distrust and impertinence, he unfolded my note, which he held 
beneath his fingers, and said, 

'* I received this from you last night, Mr. " 

" Hinton," said I, assisting him. 

" Mr. Hinton," repeated he, slowly. 

"Wont you be seated ?" said I, pointing to a chair, and taking one 
myself. 

He nodded familiarly, and placing himself on the window-sill, with 
one foot upon a chair, resumed : 

" It's about O'Grady's business, I suppose, you've come down here j 
the Captain has treated me very ill." 

''You are quite right," said I, coolly, "in guessing the object of myvisitj 
but I must also let you know, that in any observations you make con- 
cerning Captain O'Grady, they are made to a friend, who will no more 
permit his name to be slightingly treated than his own." 

" Of course," pronounced with a smile of the most insulting coolness, 
was the only reply. " That, however, is not the matter in hand. Your 
friend, the Captain, never condescended to answer my letter." 

" He only received it a few days ago." 

"Why isn't he here himself? Is a gentleman rider to be treated 
like a common jockey that's paid for his race ?" 

I confess the distinction was too subtle for me, but I said nothing in 
reply. 

" I don't even know where the horse is, nor if he is here at all — 
will you call that handsome treatment, Mr. Hinton ?" 

" One thing I am quite sure of, Mr. Burke — Captain O'Grady is 
incapable of anything unworthy or unbecoming a gentleman -, the 
haste of his departure for foreign service may have prevented him ob- 
serving certain matters of etiquette towards you, but he has commis- 
sioned me to accept your terms. The horse is, or will be here to-night. 



Lever.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 421 

and I trust nothing will interrupt the good understanding that has 
hitherto subsisted between you." 

" And will he take up the writ ?" 

*' He will," said I, firmly. 

*' He must have a heavy book on the race." 

'^Nearly a thousand pounds." 

''I'm sorry for it, for his sake," was the cool reply, ''for iie'll lose 
his money." 

" Indeed !" said I j *' I understand that you thought well of his horse, 
and that with your riding " 

"Ay J but 1 wont ride for him." 

" You wont ride ! — not on your own terms ?" 

" No ; not even on my own terms. Don't be putting yourself into 
a passion, Mr. Hinton — you've come down to a country where that 
never does any good 3 we settle all our little matters here in a social, 
pleasant way of our own — but, I repeat it, I wont ride for your friend ; 
so you may withdraw his horse as soon as you like j except," added he, 
with a most contemptuous sneer, " you have a fancy for riding him 
yourself." 

Resolving that whatever course I should follow, I should at least 
keep my temper for the present, I assumed as much calmness as I 
could command, and said, 

"And what is there against O'Grady's horse?" 

"A chestnut mare of Tom Molloy's, that can beat him over any 
country — the rest are withdrawn ; so that I'll have a 'ride over' for 
my pains." 

"Then you ride for Mr. Molloy ?" said I. 

"You've guessed it," replied he, with a wink, as throwing his hat 
carelessly on one side of his head, he gave me an insolent nod, and 
lounged out of the room. 

I need not say that my breakfast appetite was not improved by Mr. 
Burke's visit ; in fact, never was a man more embarrassed than I was. 
Independent of the loss of his money, I knew how poor Phil would 
suffer from the duplicity of the transaction ; and in my sorrow for his 
sake, I could not help accusing myself of ill management in the matter. 
Had I been more conciliating, or more blunt — had I bullied, or bid 
higher, perhaps a different result might have followed. Alas ! in all my 
calculations, I knew little or nothing of him with whom I had to deal. 
Puzzled and perplexed, uncertain how to act, now resolving on one 
course, now deciding on the opposite, I paced my little room for above 
an hour, the only conviction I could come to being the unhappy 
choice that poor O' Grady had made when he selected me for his 
negociator. — Ouj' Mess. Jack Hinton the Guardsman, ch. xxi. 



422 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bancroft. 



178.— MASSACRE OF ENGLISH COLONISTS IN AMERICA BY THE 

INDIANS. 

[Bancroft, 1800. 

[George Bancroft, born near Worcester, in Massachusetts, Oct. 3, 1800, was 
educated at Harvard College, at Gottingen, and Berlin. Having filled various ap- 
pointments, he was made Secretary to the Navy in 1845, '^'^d was sent on a diplo- 
matic mission to England in 1846. The first volume of "The History of the 
Colonization of the United States" appeared in 1834, the second in 1837, and the 
third in 1840. This was followed by "The History of the American Revolution," 
the first volume of which was published in 1852. Both works are included in his 
" History of America," of which various editions have been published in this country.] 

Between the Indians and the EngHsh there had been quarrels, but no 
wars. From the first landing of colonists in Virginia, the power of the 
natives was despised 3 their strongest weapons were such arrows as they 
could shape without the use of iron, such hatchets as could be made 
from stone ; and an English mastiff seemed to them a terrible adversary. 
Nor were their numbers considerable. Within sixty miles of James- 
town, it is computed, there were no more than five thousand souls, or 
about fifteen hundred warriors. The whole territory of the clans, which 
listened to Powhatan as their leader or their conqueror, comprehended 
about eight thousand square miles, thirty tribes, and twenty-four hun- 
dred warriors 3 so that the Indian population amounted to about one 
inhabitant to a square mile. The natives, naked and feeble compared 
with the Europeans, were nowhere concentrated in considerable 
villages 3 but dwelt dispersed in hamlets, with from forty to sixty in each 
company. Few places had more than two hundred 3 and many had 
less. It was also unusual for any large portion of these tribes to be 
assembled together. An idle tale of an ambuscade of three or four 
thousand is perhaps an error for three or four hundred 3 otherwise it is 
an extravagant fiction, wholly unworthy of belief. Smith once met a 
party, that seemed to amount to seven hundred 3 and so complete was 
the superiority conferred by the use of firearms, that with fifteen men 
he was able to withstand them all. The savages were therefore re- 
garded with contempt or compassion. No uniform care had been taken 
to conciliate their goodwill 3 although their condition had been improved 
by some of the arts of civilized life. The degree of their advancement 
may be judged by the intelligence of their chieftain. A house having 
been built for Opechancanough after the English fashion, he took such 
delight in the lock and key, that he would lock and unlock the door a 
hundred times a day, and thought the device incomparable. When 
Wyatt arrived, the natives expressed a fear lest his intentions should be 
hostile 3 he assured them of his wish to preserve inviolable peace 3 and 
the emigrants had no use for fire-arms except against a deer or a fowl. 



Bancroft.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 423 

Confidence so far increased, that the old law, which made death the 
penalty for teaching the Indians to use a musket, was forgotten j and they 
were now employed as fowlers and huntsmen. The plantations of the 
English were widely extended in unsaspecting conlidence, along the 
James River and towards the Potomac, wherever rich grounds invited 
to the culture of tobacco ; nor were solitary places, remote from neigh- 
bours, avoided ; since there would there be less competition for the 
ownership of the soil. 

Powhatan, the father of Pocahontas, remained, after the marriage of 
his daughter, the firm friend of the English. He died in 1618 ; andhis 
younger brother was now the heir to his influence. Should the native 
occupants of the soil consent to be driven from their ancient patrimony ? 
Should their feebleness submit patiently to contempt, injur}'-, and the 
loss of their lands r The desire of self-preservation, the necessity of 
self-defence, seemed to demand an active resistance ; to preserve their 
dwelling-places, the English must be exterminated ; in open battle the 
Indians would be powerless ; conscious of their weakness, they could 
not hope to accomplish their end except by a preconcerted surprise. 
The crime was one of savage ferocity ; but it was suggested by their 
situation. They were timorous and quick of apprehension, and conse- 
quently treacherous 3 for treachery and falsehood are the vices of 
cowardice. The attack was prepared with impenetrable secrecy. To 
the very last hour the Indians preserv^ed the language of friendship ; 
they borrowed the boats of the Enghsh to attend their own assemblies ; 
on the very morning of the massacre, they were in the houses and at 
the tables of those whose death they were plotting. " Sooner," said they, 
" shall the sky fall, than peace be violated on our part." At length, on 
the twenty-second of March (1622), at midday, at one and the same in- 
stant of time, the Indians fell upon an unsuspecting population, which 
was scattered through distant villages, extending one hundred and forty 
miles on both sides of the river. The onset was so sudden, that the 
blow was not discerned till it fell. None were spared ; children and 
women, as well as men, the missionar}', who had cherished the natives 
with untiring gentleness, the liberal benefactors, from whom they had 
received daily benefits, all were murdered with indiscriminate 
barbarity, and every aggravation of cruelty. The savages fell upon the 
dead bodies, as if it had been possible to commit on them a fresh 
murder. 

In one hour three hundred and forty-seven persons were cut off. 
Yet the carnage was not universal 5 and Virginia was saved from so 
disastrous a grave. The night before the execution of the conspiracy, 
it was revealed by a converted Indian to an Englishman, whom he 
wished to rescue; Jamestown and the nearest settlements were well 



|24 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bell. 

prepared against an attack j and the savages, as timid as they were 
ferocious, fled with precipitation from the appearance of wakeful re- 
sistance. In this manner the most considerable part of the colony 
was saved. — A History of the United States from the Discovery of the 
American Continent to the Present Time. Vol. i. ch. v. 



179.— CAEN. 

[R. Bell, 1800 — 1867. 

[Robert Bell, born at Cork, Jan. 10, t 800, and educated at Dublin, was appointed 
editor of "The Atlas" in 1828, and with some others projected "The Monthly- 
Chronicle" in 1839. He is the author of two works in " Lardner's Cyclopaedia," 
"The History of Russia," and "The Lives of the Poets.." His "Wayside Pictures 
through France, Belgium, and Holland " appeared in 1849, ^"^ ^^^ novel, "The 
Ladder of Gold," in 1850. He is the author of several historical and biographical 
works, and edited an annotated edition of the English poets, the first volume of which 
appeared in 1854. He died April 12, 1867.] 

People who travel only in their arm-chairs acquire notions of foreign 
places which reality usually upsets at the first glance. Caen is a sort 
of chateau en Espagne in the story books. The reader who has been 
in the habit of exploring the metrical romances and the rural statistics 
of French love and murder has probably built an aboriginal town for 
himself in a sequestered district, filled it with a simple population, 
wearing towering caps and sabots, and noted it down in his imagination 
as Caen. But when he comes to see the place, he will be duly dis- 
appointed in finding that the scene of so many sentimental lays and 
tragedies of unsophisticated passion (for Caen has a celebrity of this 
description in the annals of romantic crime), is a large, bustling, well- 
paved town, of 40,000 inhabitants, with not a scrap of poetry about it 
except the hills and forests, its old Norman churches and sinuous 
streets. Caen occupies such an irregular site, that the streets run up 
and down, and in and out, in a very odd way, and the city partakes of 
the beauty as well as the inconvenience of that circumstance. The 
principal streets, wide enough for all purposes, are choked up with 
people from sunrise to sunset ; and the moment you step out of your 
hotel, the deafening noises of the retail business that is going on in 
these thronged passages, as well as in the elaborately furnished shops, 
soon satisfy you that, instead of being a paradise of picturesque antiqui- 
ties, Caen is in fact a hive of hard-working industry. 

In the citadel, up to which you must scramble by a narrow toilsome 
ascent, pleasantly relieved by clusters of women sitting making lace at 
their open doors and windows, you ma)- -ead the history of Caen. But as 
this history is to be found in a hundred and odd books, and as the birth, ad- 



BeU.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 425 

ventures, and death of William the Conqueror can present no novel at- 
tractions to an English reader, let us hurry into the streets, and look at 
the people. We must even pass by St. Etienne, sublime in its lofty sim- 
plicity^, and the old abbeys, and all the other ecclesiastical memorials, 
grand and beautiful as they are, to peep into the markets, and fill our 
eyes with coifs and aprons and tinsel caps, as deftly tricked out as if 
they were freshly mounted for the stage ; and staggering old houses, 
and broken ends of streets, that look very much as if they wxre " got 
up " for the same purpose. 

The markets throw out some picturesque materials to the 
eye 3 but the ensemble is distracting. The masses of men, 
women, and children, congregated about the booths and stands, 
filling to suifocation ever}- speck of ground, and the odours exhaled 
from the animal and vegetable composite, arrest you on the edge of the 
stench. Fortunately it is not in the markets the market business is 
done, or that we get at the contour and customs of the market people. 
Caen has a special way of its own in carrying on its daily traffic in 
vegetables and fish, flesh, and fowl. The affairs of the markets are 
not transacted in the places so called, but up and down through the 
streets. These ambulatory markets, during the hours of household 
preparation, give to the town the aspect of a great tumultuous fair. 
Sometimes there comes a donkey, pattering slowly along, heavily laden 
with panniers piled sky-high with all kinds of garden produce, and 
driven by women, with towering snow-white caps shining and stream- 
ing in the sun, lemon-coloured shawls, blue petticoats, and salots. Im- 
mediately after the donkey, comes trailing up a great puce-coloured horse, 
toiliug between shafts of such inordinate length that, being in advance 
of the wheels by at least four feet, the draft is thrown to a considerable 
distance behind him 3 while the shafts continue to run back to an equal 
extent beyond the wheels. In the centre of this rude contrivance 
is raised a kind of basket-work, bearing aloft a whole garden of flowers 
and fruits, or millinery work, or hardware, or the contents of a 
butcher's shop, or select extracts from the live and dead stock of a 
farmyard. These carts are usually escorted by men in blue check 
frocks and dark trousers, furnished with enormously long and powerful 
whips, and blowing cows' horns with most discordant energy to 
announce their approach. Within the cart is seated a woman perched 
up on a bundle, ready to serve the crowd, through which the lumber- 
ing machine moves at a snail's pace. Then comes a young man (some- 
times a girl) with a semicircular basket built up flat to his back, and 
ascending to a considerable height about his head, displaying an 
attractive variety of articles — geraniums in pots, flowering out tier 
above tier — crisp broccoU — turnips — beet-root — salad — cabbages 3 nor 



426 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Walton. 

is he satisfied with the ponderous weight he balances so dexterously on 
his back, but he must needs increase his toil by shrill ear-splitting cries, 
describing his whole cargo in minute detail. He is not singular in this 
respect ; all the itinerant merchants cry their goods — and their name 
is legion. It is easy to imagine the prodigious uproar of the scene 
— the braying of donkeys, dull recipients of blows and sacres ! — the 
rumbling of the long carts — the cracking of whips, like irregular volleys 
of small arms — the Babel of cries — the shrieking of cows' horns — and 
the din of voices bartering, cheapening, clamouring throughout the 
length and breadth of the procession. But, happily, it lulls a little 
towards noon. By that time the townspeople have laid in their stores 
for dinner, and the occupation of the ambulatory vendors is over for 
the day. A few of them, with a surplus stock on hand, still straggle 
about, like drops after a shower, hoping to catch some late customer, 
or to tempt others, already supplied, with a bargain from the refuse. 
But the riot is comparatively exhausted, and, with the exception of 
the clatter of sabots, the reverberations of voices down the narrow 
streets, or an incidental whip or horn dying awgy in the distance, the 
town is tolerably tranquil for the rest of the day. — Wayside Pictures 
through France, Belgium, and Holland. Chap, vi.. The Streets of Caen. 



i8o.— OBSERVATIONS OX THE TENXH. 

[IZAAK WaLTOK, 1593 1683. 

[IzAAK Walton, born at Stafford, August 9, 1593, is supposed to have been appren- 
ticed in London, where he afterwards went into business as a hosier. He married 
Rachel Flood, a descendant of Archbishop Cranmer, Dec. 27, 1626, She died in 
Aug., 1640, and in 1647 he married Anne Ken, half-sister to the bishop of that 
name. His "Life of Donne," prefixed to an edition of his Sermons, appeared in 1640, 
and as a separate work in 1658. In the meantime the first edition of his great work, 
"The Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's Recreation/' was published in 
1653. His collection of Sir Henry Wotton's Letters, &c., with Life, appeared in 
1651, his "Life of Hooker" in 1665, his "Life of George Herbert" in 1670, and 
his " Life of Bishop Sanderson" in 1678. The first collected edition of his earlier 
Lives ap[>eared in 1670. Walton died at Winchester, Dec. 15,1683. His life, by 
Sir John Hawkins, is prefixed to the edition of the "Complete Angler," published 
in 1760. A life, by Dr. Zouch, appeared in 1824, and anot er by Sir Harris Nicolas 
in 1833. Many biographies of Walton have been publishe<l. "The Complete 
Angler" has gone through se\'eral editions. It is "a work which," says Sir Harris 
Niajlas, "whether considered as a treatise on the art of angling, or as a beautiful 
pastoral, abounding in exquisite descriptions of rural scenery, in sentiments of the 
purest mora.ity, and in an unaffected love of the Creator and his works, has long 
been ranked amongst the most popular compositions in our language."] 

The Tench, the physician of fishes, is observed to love ponds better 
than rivers, and to love pits better than either : yet Camden observes. 



Walton-] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 427 

there is a river in Dorsetshire that abounds with tenches^ but doubtless 
thej retire to the most deep and quiet places in it. 

This fish hath very large fins, very small and smooth scales, a red 
circle about his eyes, which are big and of a gold colour, and from 
either angle of his mouth there hangs down a little barb. In every 
tench's head there are two little stones which foreign physicians make 
great use of. but he is not commended for wholesome meat, though 
there be very much use made of them for outward applications. Ron- 
deletius* says, that at his being at Rome, he saw a great cure done by 
applying a tench to the feet of a very sick man. This, he says, was 
done after an unusual manner, by certain Jews. And it is observed, 
that many of those people have many secrets yet unknown to Chris- 
tians ; secrets that have never yet been written, but have been (since 
the days of their Solomon, who knew the nature of all things, even 
firom the cedar to the shrub) delivered by tradition, from the father to 
the son, and so from generation to generation, without writing 3 or 
(unless it were casually) without the least communicating them to 
any other nation or tribe ; for to do that they account a profanation. 
And yet it is thought that they, or some spirit worse than they, first told 
us thathce swallowed alive, were a certain cure for the yellow-jaundice. 
This, and many other medicines, were discovered by them, or by 
revelation 5 for, doubtless, we attained them not by study. 

Well, this fish, besides his eating, is very useful both dead and alive 
for the good of mankind. But I will meddle no more with that 5 
my honest humble art teaches no such boldness -, there are too many 
foolish meddlers in physic and divinity, that think themselves fit to 
meddle with hidden secrets, and so bring destruction to their followers. 
But I'll not meddle with them, any farther than to wish them wiser j 
and shall tell you next, for I hope I may be so bold, that the tench is 
the physician of fishes, for the pike especially ; and that the pike, being 
either sick or hurt, is cured by the touch of the TENCH. And it is 
observed, that the tyrant pike will not be a woLf to his physician, but 
forbears to devour him though he be never so hungry. 

This fish, that carries a natural balsam in him to cure himself and 
others, loves yet to feed in very foul water, and amongst weeds. And 
yet I am sure he eats pleasantly, and doubtless, you will think so too, 
if you taste him. And I shah therefore proceed to give you some few, 
and but a few, directions how to catch this Tench, of which I have 
given you these observations. — The Complete Angler, ch. xi. Fourth 
Day. 



* Wm. Rondelet or Rondeletius, bora in 1507, died July 18, 1566. 



428 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Longfellow. 



i8i.— EXCELSIOR. 

[Longfellow, 1807. 

[Henry Wadsworth Longfet-low, born at Portland, Maine, Feb. 27, 1807, and 
educated at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, studied for tlie law. Having made a tour 
in Europe, he was appointed professor of modern languages in Bowdoin College in 
1829. His first work, " Outre Mer," appeared in 1835, "Hyperion" and "Voices 
of the Night" in 1839, "Ballads and other Poems" in 1841, "Evangeline" in 
1847, "The Golden Legend" in 1851, "Hiawatha" in 1855, "Miles Standish" in 
1858, "Tales of a Wayside Inn" in 1863, "Flower de Luce" in 1866, and his 
translation of "Dante" in 1867. Longfellow has written numerous other works.] 

The shades of night were falling fast. 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath. 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath j 
And like a silver clarion rung, 
The accents of that unknown tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of hou-sehold fires gleam warm and bright j 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said j 
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
"The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud the clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior ! 

*' O stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
"Thy weary head upon this breast!" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, with a sigh. 
Excelsior ! 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
" Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last Good -night. 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 



Seeker.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. A^ 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air. 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found. 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, bnt beautiful, he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star. 

Excelsior ! 



182.— A LIFE OF PLEASURE 

[Abp. Secker, 1693— 1768. 

[Thomas Secker, born at Sibthorpe, in Nottinghamshire, in 1693, was educated fora 
Dissenting minister, but afterwards changed his views, and entered the Church, taking 
holy orders in Dec, 1722, and was soon after made rector of Houghton-le-Spring. 
Having been rapidly promoted, he was consecrated Bishop of Bristol in 1735, was 
translated to Oxford in 1737, was made Dean of St. Paul's in 1750, and Archbishop 
of Canterbury in 1758. Many volumes of his sermons and charges were published 
during his lifetime, and several collected editions of his works have appeared. He 
died August 3, 1768. A review of his life and character, by Bishop Porteus,* 
appeared in 1797.] 
Yet all the while, what they call a life of pleasure is very often only 
an affectation of being pleased. They put on airs of great gaiety, and 
in truth their pleasures are flat and insipid : they relieve one tasteless 
scene by another a little different 5 are miserable in the intervals of 
their amusements, and far from happy during the continuance of them. 
Nay indeed, under colour of relaxations, they are, to those who engage 
thoroughly in them, sore fatigues ; from which, whether they will con- 
fess it or not, relaxation is much wanted : and some undergo a speedy, 
and many a lingering, martyrdom to them. If religion enjoined men 
to mortify and macerate themselves at this rate, what dreadful names 



* He was born in 1731, appointed Bishop of London in 1787, and died May 
14, 1808. 



430 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Seeker 

would it be called ! In all likelihood, were the truth known, numbers 
would choose a quieter way of living, if one part of them could be sure, 
that the other would keep them in countenance. It is great pity there- 
fore, but they should mutually explain themselves on this tyranny of 
fashion : and not go on together in wild chaces of imaginary pleasure, 
when they had all rather sit still. But farther, several, that would be 
sorry to quit their diversions follow them only to banish reflection on 
some bad or imprudent thing that they have done, or course they 
are in. Now as this can be no better than a palliative cure, and will 
usually exasperate the disease, they ought to seek a more effectual 
remedy. And we should all consider, that probably the same enter- 
tainments will not for ever afford us the same delight : and yet by long 
use it may grow or seem hardly possible to do without them, though 
they not only misbecome, but even tire us. Nay some, when they 
have once fixed it in their minds, that happiness consists in gaiety, and 
find the innocent sorts of gay enjoyments are become tasteless, venture, 
for the sake of a higher relish, on such as are pernicious even in this world. 

Another consideration, both of prudence and duty, is, that the 
many expences of this public sort of life are excessive j and to supply 
them, creditors are frequently left unpaid, except the least deserving j 
due provision for children is omitted, and ignominious arts of raising 
money practised. Or if the votaries of pleasure do observe justice, let them 
ask their consciences, what proportion of their income goes in works of 
piety, mercy, encouragement of useful undertakings, and what in 
luxurious trifles. It will be said that these last do good by setting 
the poor to labour. But is our intention to do good by them, or 
only to gratify our vanity and voluptuousness ? Besides, much more 
good is done by procuring health to the sick, right education to the 
young, instruction to the ignorant and vicious, or by durable works of 
general utility and national honour. And employing the lower part of 
the people in ministering to the luxury of the higher, can no more 
enrich or support a kingdom, than employing the servants of a private 
family in the same manner, can enrich or support that. 

But one fashionable expence must be particularly mentioned : that 
v.hich bears the name, often very falsely, of play. Be it for ever so 
little, consuming much time in it, is the most unimproving and irra- 
tional employment that can be. But false shame and emulation fre- 
quently raise it to a very incommodious and distressing height, even 
amongst those who profess to be moderate. And the lengths that 
others go, are the most speedily and absolutely ruinous of all things. 
The more calmly men bear their losses, the worse j if they are the less 
likely to leave off for it. But usually they feel most tormenting 
agitations : yet rush on to lose more, from a groundless hope of gain j 



Lyell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 431 

and perhaps at length call in dishonesty to the aid of imprudence. I am 
unwilling to name the worst act of desperation, to which extravagant 
and vicious indulgences too frequently lead. But surely it cannot fail 
to be visible, that deliberately and presumptuously ending an immoral 
and mischievous life, by the impious and false bravery of a voluntary 
death, instead of an humble and exemplary penitence, is the completest 
rebellion against God, of which the heart of man is capable. — Sermons 
on Several Subjecis. Sermon V., 2 Tim. iii. 4. 



I 



183— CHANGES IN LANGUAGE ALWAYS IN PROGRESS. 

[Sir Charles Lyell, Bart., 1797. 

[Charles Lyell, born Nov. 14, 1797, and educated at Exeter College, Oxford, having 
been called to the bar, was knighted in 1848, received the honorary degree of D.C. L. 
from the University of Oxford in 1855, and was created a baronet Aug. 22, 1864. 
He was President of the Geological Society in 1836-7, and again in 1850-1. His 
first work, " The Principles of Geology," published in 1833, was followed by "Ele- 
ments of Geology" (reprinted under the title of "A Manual of Elementary 
Geology") in 1838; " Travels in North America" in 1841 ; "Second Visit to the 
United States" in 1845; ^^^ a treatise on "The Geological Evidences of the An- 
tiquity of Man, with Remarks on Theories of the Origin of Species by Variation," 
in 1863. Sir Charles Lyell is the author of numerous contributions to scientific 
publications, &c.] 

But another important question still remains to be considered, namely, 
whether the trifling changes which can alone be witnessed by a single 
generation, can possibly represent the working of that machinery 
which, in the course of many centuries, has given rise to such mighty 
revolutions in the forms of speech throughout the world. Every one 
may have noticed in his own lifetime the stealing in of some slight 
alterations of accent, pronunciation or spelling, or the introduction of 
some words borrowed from a foreign language to express ideas of 
which no native term precisely conveyed the import. He may also 
remember hearing for the first time some cant terms or slang phrases, 
which have since forced their way into common use, in spite of the 
efforts of the purist. But he may still contend that " within the range 
of his experience," his language has continued unchanged, and he 
may believe in its immutability in spite of minor variations. The 
real question, however, at issue is, whether there are any limits to this 
variability. He will find on further investigation, that new technical 
terms are coined almost daily in various arts, sciences, professions, and 
trades, that new names must be found for new inventions, that many 
of these acquire a metaphorical sense, and then make their way into 



432 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Lyell. 



genera] circulation, as " stereotyped," for instance, which would have 
been as meaningless to the men of the seventeenth century as would 
the new terms and images derived from steamboat and railway 
travelling to the men of the eighteenth. 

If the numerous words, idioms, and phrases, many of them of 
ephemeral duration, which are thus invented by the young and old in 
various classes of society, in the nursery, the school, the camp, the 
fleet, the courts of law and the school, and the study of the man of 
science or literature, could all be collected together and put on record, 
their number in one or two centuries might compare with the entire 
permanent vocabulary of the language. It becomes, therefore, a curious 
subject of enquiry, what are the laws which govern not only the inven- 
tion, but also the "selection " of some of these words or idioms, giving 
them currency in preference to others? — for as the powers of the 
human memory are limited, a check must be found to the endless in- 
crease and multiplication of terms, and old words must be dropped 
nearly as fast as new ones are put into circulation. Sometimes the new 
word or phrase, or a modification of the old ones, will entirely supplant 
the more ancient expressions, or, instead of the latter being dis- 
carded, both may flourish together, the older one having a more 
restricted use. 

Although the speakers may be unconscious that any great fluctua- 
tion is going on in their language, — although when we observe the 
manner in which new words and phrases are thrown out, as if at 
random or in sport, while others get into vogue, we may think the 
process of change to be the result of mere chance, — there are never- 
theless fixed laws in action, by which, in the general struggle for 
existence, some terms and dialects gain the victory over others. The 
slightest advantage attached to some new mode of pronouncing 
or spelling, from considerations of brevity or euphony, may turn 
the scale, or more powerful causes of selection may decide which 
of two or more rivals shall triumph and which succumb. 
Among these are fashion, or the influence of an aristocracy, 
whether of birth or education, popular writers, orators, preachers, — 
a centralized government organizing its schools expressly to promote 
uniformity of diction, and to get the better of provincialisms and local 
dialects. Between these dialects, which may be regarded as so many 
"incipient languages," the competition is always keenest when they 
are most nearly allied, and the extinction of any one of them de- 
stroys some of the links by which a dominant tongue may hav^e been 
previously connected with some other widely distinct one. It is by 
the perpetual loss of such intermediate forms of speech that the great 
dissimilarity of the languages which survive is brought about. Thus, 



Safe.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 433 

if Dutch should become a dead language, English and German would 
be separated by a wider gap. — The Geological Evidences of the An- 
tiquity of Man, with Remarks on Theories of the Origin of Species by 
Variation, Chap, xxiii. 



184.— DI^TIS AND THE HAND OF DEATH. 

[Sala, 1826. 

[George Augustus Henry Sala, born in London in 1826, at an early age became 
a contributor to " Household Words," and other periodicals. He is the author ot 
numefous works of fiction, most of which made their appearance in some popular 
peikidical, and have since been republished in a separate form. The best known of 
ti^se productions are — "Twice Round the Clock," which appeared in 1859; "The 
Baildmgton Peerage," in i_86o; "The Two Prima Donnas," in 1862; "The 
SevcD Sods of Mammon," in 1863 ; and " Quite Alone," in 1864. Mr. Sala went as a 
special correspondent to the United States for the Daily Telegraph in 1863, wrote 
"America in the Midst of War," published in 1864, and has visited other countries 
in the same capacity.] 

If you take a million-rich man, and put him naked and without 
victuals or a roof to cover him, on a rock, and expose him to the 
nipping frost and the January blast, it will not be long ere he begins to 
shiver, and anon to howl in agony and despair; and at last he will 
crouch prone to his jagged bed and die. But in the very centre of 
London, with his palaces and his vassals around him, it is difficult for 
the rich man to feel the cold. On that bare rock his millions in gold 
or crisp paper would not warm him, unless haply he had needles and 
thread to sew the money-bags together for raiment. When he is in 
London, however, the money will buy furred robes and Walls-end coals, 
and sand-bags to exclude the wind, and well closed chariots to ride in, 
nnd Welsh wigs to draw over his head, plushgloves to cover his hands, 
and hot-water bottles to put to his feet. Railway rugs, scalding soups 
and drinks, shawls and comforters, aie all ready for him and purchase- 
able. The theatres, the churches, the counting-houses, the board-rooms, 
the marts and exchanges which he frequents, have all their warming 
apparatus, and become snug and cosy. No ; I cannot see how it is 
possible for the English Dives to shiver, — were even Siberia brought to 
London, and the North Pole set up in the Strand in lieu of the May- 
pole which once adorned that thoroughfare. The milliners that serve 
Dives' wiv^es and daughters may sell as many fans for Christmas balls 
as for Midsummer picnics ; and at Dives' New-year's feasts the ice- 
creams and the ice-puddings are positively refreshing after the spiced 
viands and generous wines. 

Sir Jasper Goldthorpe was the richest of rich men. The quilt of 

F F 



434 7^^ EVERY-DAY BOOK [Masson. 

his bed might have been stuffed with bank-notes instead of eider-down. 
He could have afforded, had he needed caloric, to have burned one of 
his own palaces down, and warmed his hands by the conflagration. From 
his warm bed-room, breakfast-room, and study, his warm carringe took 
him, swathed in warm wrappers, to the warm sanctum of his warm 
counting-house. His head clerks wore respirators, and had mulliga- 
tawney soup for lunch. The Times' City article was carefu ly warmed 
for him ere he perused it. His messengers comforted themselves with 
alamode beef and hot sausages and fried potatoes before roaring fires 3 
and, when they were despatched on errands, slipped into heated taverns 
in little City lanes, where they hastily swallowed mugs tuU of steaming 
egg-hot and cordialized porter. The only cold that could seemingly 
touch so rich a man as Sir Jasper Goldthorpe was a cold in the head j 
and what possets, white-wine-wheys, gruels, footbaths, doctors' pre- 
scriptions, and hot flannels, were there not in readiness to drive catarrh 
away from him ! Lived there in the whole realm of England one man 
or boy mad or desperate enough to cast a snow-ball at the millionaire 
of Beryl Court ? I think hot. He was above the cold. It was street- 
people only who were cold, just as the little princess asked the painter 
who came to take her portrait whether it was not true that " only street- 
people died." So Sir Jasper Goldthorpe, his sons and their thralls and 
churls^ their tributaries and feudatories, let the street-people shiver as 
beseemed their degree, flinging them cheques and sovereigns sometimes 
in their haughty unbending way, and went on, warm and glowing, 
from a prosperous old year to a prosperous new one, when suddenly a 
Hand of Ice, that thrilled them all to the very bones and marrow, was 
laiJ just above the heart of Mammon, and of his wife, and of his 
children. 

It was the Hand of Death, and it touched each with a cold pang, and 
went onwards, to touch some transiently, but to grasp others without 
release. Whoever felt its lightest pressure was chilled and benumbed. 
The Icy Hand came to Beryl Court and to Onyx Square, and all the 
gold of Mammondom could not, for that season, bring cheerful warmth 
again.— The Seven Suns of Mammon : A Story, chap. v. 



185.— CHATTERTON'S PROCESSES OF INVENTION. 

[Mas^t-n, 1822. 

[David Masson was born at Aberdeen, Dec. 2, 1822, and etucate.i Vlarischal 

College and the University of Edinburgh. At an eaily age he appn. . iiimselt to 
literary pursuits, in 1844 repaired to London, and wiote for **i'u: . is Maga- 



Masson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 435 

zine/' and other periodicals. After another residence of about two years' duration 
in Edinburgh, he returned to London m 1847, ^^^ was appointed Professor of the 
English Language and Literature at University College, in 1852. This post 
he resigned in October, 1865, on receiving the appointment to the Professorship 
of Rhetoric and English Literature in the University of Edinburgh. Professor Masson, 
who has contributed to the quarterly reviews and other periodicals, became editor of 
"Macmillan's Magazine" in 1859. Amongst other works, he has written "Essays 
Biographiccl and Critical : chiefly on English Poets," published in i8.=;6; "Life of 
John Milton," vol. i. in 1858; " British Novelists and their Styles: a Critical Sketch 
of the History of British Prose Fiction," in 1859; ^^'^ "Recent British Philosophy,'* 
in 1865.] 

Had Chatterton put forth this coinage of his brain in the shape of a 
professed historical romance, all would have been well. But from 
working so lovingly in the matter of antiquity, he contracted also a 
preference for the antique inform. As Scott, in the very process of 
realizing to himself the Quentin Durwards, the Mause Headriggs, and 
the Jedediah Cleishbothams of his inimitable fictions, acquired in his 
own person an antique way of thinking, and a mastery over the antique 
glossary, if not a positive affection for it, so it became natural lo 
Chatterton, revelling as he did in conceptions of the antique, to draw 
on, as it were, an ancient-fashioned suit of thought, and make use of 
antique forms of language. Hence, when, prompted by his literary 
impulse, he sought to embody in verse any of those traditions or fictions 
relative to the past time of England which his enthusiasm for the 
antique had led him to fix upon — as, for example, the story of the 
Danish invasions of England, the story of the Battle of Hastings, or the 
story of a tournament in the reign of Edward I. — he found himself 
obliged by a kind of artistic necessity to impart a quaintness to his style 
by the use of old vocables and idioms. Persisted in thereafter for the 
mere pleasure of the exercise, the habit would become exaggerated, till 
at last it would amount to an ungovernable disposition to riot in the 
obsolete. 

Even so far, however, there was nothing blameworthy. In thus 
selecting a style artificially antique for the conveyance of his historic 
fancies, Chatterton, it might be affirmed, had but obeyed the proper 
instinct of his genius, and chosen that element in which he found he 
could work best. Every man has his mode, or set of intellectual con- 
ditions most favourable for the production and development of what is 
best in him ; and in Chatterton's case this mode, this set of conditions, 
consisted in an affectation of the antique. For let any one compare the 
Rowley Poems of Chatterton with his own acknowledged productions, 
and the conclusion will be inevitable, that his /or^e was the antique, and 
that here alone lay any preternatural power he possessed. There are, 
indeed, in his acknowledged poems, felicities of expression and gleams 

F F 2 



436 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Masson. 

of genius, showing that even as a modern poet he would certainly in 
time have taken a high rank j but to do justice to his astonishing 
abilities, we must read his antique compositions. In the element of the 
antique Chatterton rules like a master j in his modern etFusions he is 
but a clever boy beginning to handle with some effect the language of 
Pope and Dryden. Moreover, there is a perceptible moral difference 
between the two classes of his performances. In his antique poems 
there is freshness, enthusiasm, and a fine earnest sense of the becoming \ 
throughout the modern ones we are offended by irreverence, malev(;- 
lence, and a kind of vicious, boyish pruriency. And conscious as 
Chatterton must have been of this difference : aware as he must have 
been that it was when he wrote in his artificially-antique style that his 
invention worked most powerfully, that his heart beat most nobly, and 
the poetic shiver ran most keenly through his veins — we cannot wonder 
that he should have given himself up to this kind of literary recreation 
rather than to any other. 

Unfortunately, however, meaner causes were all this while at w^ork — 
maliciousness towards individuals, craving for notoriety, delight in 
misleading people, and, above all, want of money. Moreover, for this 
unhappy combination of moral states and dispositions, it so happened 
that the Grandfather of Lies had a very suitable temptation ready, in 
the shape of that most successful literary imposture, the Ossian Poems, 
then in the first blush of their contested celebrity. Yielding to the 
temptation, Chatterton resolved to turn what was best and most 
original in his genius — his enthusiasm for the antique — into the service 
of his worst propensities. In other words, he resolved to adopt, with 
certain variations and adaptions to his own case, the trick of Macpher- 
son. That this was the act of one express and distinct determination of his 
w^ill — a solemn and s'^cret compact with himself, made at a very early 
period indeed, probably before the conclusion of his fifteenth year — 
there can be no manner of doubt. The elaboration of his scheme of 
imposture, however, was gradual. The first exhibition of it, and pro- 
bably that which suggested much that followed, was the Burgum 
Hoax,* with its afterthought of the Old English poet, John de Berg- 
ham. Of this original trick the Rowley device was but a gigantic ex- 
pansion. To invent a poet of the past, on whom to father all his own 



* Burgum and Catcott were partners in a shop in the pewter trade in Bristol. 
Chatterton persuaded the former that he was descended from one of the noblest families 
in En;;land, and gave him a pedigree in manuscript of the family of the De Berghams 
from the Norman Conquest. In this pedigree, John De Bergham, a poet, was in- 
troduced, a-s the author of several works, and the translator of some part of the Iliad, 
under the title of " Romance of Troy." 



Masson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 437 

compositions in the antique style, and to give this poet a probable and 
fixed footing in history, was the essential form of the scheme. That 
the poet thus invented should be a native of Bristol, and that his date 
should be in the times of the merchant Canynge, were special acci- 
dents determined by Chatterton's position and peculiar capabilities. 
And thus the two processes of invention, the legitimate and the ille- 
gitimate, worlied into each other's hands, — Chatterton's previous con- 
ceptions of the life and times of Canynge providing him with a proper 
chronological and topographical environment for his required poet ; 
and his device of the poet giving richness and interest to his romance 
of Canynge. And, once begun, there w^re powerful reasons why the 
deceit should be persevered in — the pleasure of the jest itself; the 
secret sense of superiority it gave him ; its advantage as a means of 
hooking half-crowns out of people's pockets ; and last, though not 
least, the impossibility of retracting without being knocked down by 
Barrett* for damaging his history, or kicked by the Catcottst for 
having made fools of them. Hence, by little and little, the whole 
organization of the imposture, from the first rumour of old manu- 
scripts up to the use of ochre, black lead, and smoke, in preparing 
specimens of them. — Essays BiographicaL and Critical : chiefly on Eng- 
lish Poets* Essay VI., Chatterton: A Story of the Year 1770, chap. ii. 



* Mr. Barrett was a surgeon in good practice at Bristol, and had some reputation as 
an antiquarian. He was engaged writing a iiistory of Bristol, and Ctiatterton 
supplied him with deeds and other ancient documents, likely to be of use to him in his 
literary undertaking. 

t There were two brothers of this name with whom Chatterton had dealings, Mr. 
George Catcott, Mr. Burgum's partner, and the Rev. George Catcott. In one of his 
effusions, the poet describes the first mentioned thus : 

** Catcott is very fond of talk and fame — 
His wish a perpetuity of name ; 
Which to procure a pewter altar's made 
To bear his name and signify his trade ; 
In pomp burlesqued the rising spire to head. 
To tell futurity a pewterer's dead." 

Nor was he less severe upon the clergyman, whom he addresses in these lines : 

** Might we not, Catcott, then, infer from hence 
Your zeal for Scripture hath devoured your sense V 



438 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hakluyt. 



i86.— ADVANTAGES DERIVED FROM INTERCOURSE WITH 
FOREIGN COUNTRIES. 

[Hakluyt, 1553 — j6i6. 

[Richard Hakluyt, born in 1553, was educated at Westminster, went to Christ 
Church, Oxford, in 15 75, and having at an early age studied narratives of voyages 
and travels, was appointed lecturer of geography and cosmography in that University. 
He was made chaplain to the English Embassy at Paris in 1584, and during his 
residence in that city published at his own expense, in French and English, "Lau- 
donniere's Narrative of the Discovery of Florida." On his return to England, aided 
by Sir Walter Raleigh, he collected materials for his great work, "The Principal Naviga- 
tions^ Voyages, and Discoveries made by the English Nation," published in 1589. 
This volume was republished with two others in 1 5 98 — 1 6co, and a new edition in five 
volumes appeared in 1809 — 12. Zouch in his " Life of Sir P. Sidney," says of this 
indefatigable compiler, " Every reader conversant in the annals of our naval trans- 
actions will cheerfully acknowledge the merit of Richard Hakluyt, who devoted his 
studies to the investigation of those periods of the English history, which regard the 
improvement of navigation and commerce. He had the advantage of an academical 
education. He was elected student of Christ Church in Oxford in 1570, and was 
therefore contemporary with Sidney at the University. To him we are principally 
indebted for a clear and comprehensive description of those noble discoveries of the 
English nation, made by sea or over land, to the most distant quarter of the earth. His 
incomparable industry was remunerated with every possible encouragement by Sir 
Francis Walsingham and Sir Philip Sidney. To the latter, as to a most generous 
promoter of all ingenious and useful knowledge, he inscribed his first collection of 
voyages and discoveries, printed in 1582.* Thus animated and encouraged, he was 
enabled to leave to posterity the fruits of his unwearied labours — an invaluable trea- 
sure of nautical information, preserved in volumes, which even at this day affix to his 
name a brilliancy of reputation, which a series of ages can never efface or obscure." 
Hakluyt wrote some other works. " A Selection of curious, rare, and early Voyages 
and Histories of interesting Discoveries, chiefly translated or published by Hakluyt, 
or at his suggestion, but not included in his celebrated compilation, to which, to 
Purchas, and other general Collections, this is intended as a Supplement," appeared in 
1812. He was appointed to a living in Suffolk, made a prebend of Westminster 
Abbey, and died November 23, 161 6. An island in Baffin's Bay, a promontory in 
Spitzbergcn, and the Hakluyt Society, founded in London in 1846, for the publica- 
tion of all the earlier voyages and histories, are named after this persevering compiler.] 

There is a walled towrief not farre from Barbaric, called Hubbed, 
toward the South from the famous towne Telensin, about six miles : 
the inhabitants of which towne in effect be all Diers. And it is sayd 
that thereabout they haue plenty of Anile, and that they occupy that, 
and also that they use there in their dyings, of the Saffron aforesayd. 



* This is not his great work, but his first publication, "Divers Voyages touching 
the Discovery of America," published in 1582. 

t llie original orthography preserved in this extract will afTord the reader an oppor- 
tunity of judging of the state of the language towards the close of the sixteenth century. 



Kikluyt.j OF MO'D^.RN LITERATURE. 439 

The tnieth whereof, in the Southerly ports of the JMediteran sea, is 
easily learned in your passage to TripoH, or in retarne from thence 
homeward you may vnderstand it. It is reported at Salfronwalden 
that a Pilgrim purposing to do good to his countrey, stole an head of 
Saffron, and hid the same in liis Palmers staife, which he had made 
hollow l)efore of purpose, and so he brought this root into this realme, 
with venture of his life : for if he had been taken, by the law of the 
countrey from whence it came, he had died for the fact. If the like 
loue in this our age were in our people that now become great trauel- 
lers, many knowledges, and many trades, and many herbes and plants 
might be brought into this realme tliat might doe tlie realme good. 
And the Romans hauing that care, brought from all coasts of the 
world into Italie all arts and sciences, and all kinds of beasts and 
fowels, and aU herbes, trees, busks and plants that might yeeld profit 
or pleasure to their countrey of Italie. And if tliis care had not bene 
heretofore in oar ancesters, then had our life bene sauage now, for then 
we had not had Wheat nor Rie, Peaze nor Beanes, Barley nor Oats, 
Peare nor Apple, Vine nor many other profitable and pleasant plants. 
Bull nor Cow, Sheepe nor Swine, Horse nor jMare, Cocke nor Hen, 
nor a number of other things that we inioy, without which our hfe 
were to be sayd barbarous : for these things and a thousand that we vse 
more the first inhabitors of this Hand found not here. And in time of 
memory things haue bene brought in that were not here before, as the 
Damaske rose by Doctoar Linaker,* king Henry the seuenth and king 
Henrie the eightsf Physician, the Turkey cocks and hennes about fift)^ 
yeres past, the Artichowe in time of king Henry the eight, and of later 
time was procured out of Italy the JNIuske rose plant, the plumme called 
the Perdigwena, and two kinds more by the Lord Cromv^ell after his 
trauell, and the x\bricot by a French Priest one Wolfe Gardiner to 
king Henry the eight : and now within these foure yeers there haue 
bene broug^ht into Engrland from Vienna in Austria diuers kinds of 
flowers called Tulipas, and those and other procured thither a little 
before from Constantinople by an excellent man called M. Carol us 
Clusius.l And it is sayd that since we traded to Zante that the plant 
that beareth the Coren is also brought into this realme from thence ; 
and although it bring not fruit to perfection, yet it may serue for plea- 



* Thomas Linacre, M.D., born about 1460, died October 20, 1524. 

t The uncercam state of orthography at this period is seen from the fact that such 
words as Henr\% Italy, ice, are ^pc■It in two ways in this extract. 

X Charles Clusius or De L'Ecluse, a Dutch physician and botanist, born in 1526, 
died April 4, 1 609. 



440 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Bolingbroke 

sure and for some vse, like as our vines doe, which we cannot well 
spare, although the climat so cold will not permit us to have gDod 
wines of them. And many other things haue bene brought in, that 
haue degenerated by reason of the colde climat, some other things 
brought in haue by negligence bene lost. The Archbishop of Canter- 
burie Edmund Grindall,* after he returned out of Germany brought 
into this realme the plant of Tamariske from thence, and this plant he 
hath so increased that there be here thousands of them j and many 
people haue receiued great health by this plant : and if of things 
brought in such care were had, then could not the first labour be lost. 
The seed of Tabacco hath bene brought hither out of the West Indies, 
it groweth heere, and with the herbe many haue bene eased of the 
reumes, &c. Each one of a great number of things more woorthy of 
a iourney to be made into Spain, Italy, Barbaric, Egypt, Zante, Con- 
stantinople, the West Indies, and to diuers other places neerer and 
further off then any of these, yet forsomuch as the poore are not able, 
and for that the rich setled at home in quiet will not, therefore we are 
to make sute to such as repaire to forren kingdomes, for other busi- 
nesses, to haue some care heerein, and to set before their eyes the ex- 
amples of these good men, and to endeuor to do for their parts the 
like, as their speciall businesses may permit the same. Thus giuingyou 
occasion by way of a little remembrance, to haue a desire to doe your 
countrey good, you shall, if you haue any inclination to such good, do 
more good to tli# poore ready to starue for reliefe, then euer any 
subiect did in this realme by building of Almeshoases, and bygiuing of 
lands and goods to the reliefe of the poore. Thus may you lielpe to 
driue idleness the mother of most mischiefs out of the realme, and 
winne you perpetuall fame, and the prayer of the poore, which is 
more woorth then all the golde of Peru and of all the West Indies. — 
Certaine Other most Profitahle and IVise Instructions for a principall 
English Factor at Constantinople. 



187,— THE PROPER STUDY OF HISTORY. 

[Henry St. John, Visct. Bolingbroke, 1678 — 1751. 

[Henry St. John, born at Battersea October i, 1678, was educated at Eton and at 
Oxford, and having travelled some time on the Continent, married in 1700, the 
daughter of Sir John Winchescomb, Bart., and was returned for the borough of 



* Edmund Grindal, born in 15 19, was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury in 
1576, and died July 6, 1583. 



Bolingbroke.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 441 

Wootton-Bassett in 1701. Having joined the Tory party, he became Secretary 
of War April 20, 1704, in Godolphin^s Administration, and retired with Harley in 
February 1708. He became one of the Principal Secretaries of State in Harley's 
Administration in September 17 10, was raised to the peerage as Viscount Boling- 
broke in 1 712, quarrelled with Harley, who was dismissed July 27, 17 14, 
and intrigued in favour of the Stuarts. On the death of Queen Anne, the 
Whigs obtained the chief authority, and Lord Bolingbroke was dismissed August 28, 
1 7 14. He fled to France in March, 17 15, was attainted, became Secretary of State to 
the Pretender, and married (his first wife died in 17 18) the Marquise de Vilette in 
1720. Having received a pardon, he returned to England in September 1724. His 
property was restored to him, but he was not allowed to sit in Parliament. He re- 
mained abroad from 1735 till 1742, and died December 12, 1751. Lord Boling- 
broke is celebrated as an author. Whilst living at his villa at Dawley, near Ux- 
bridge, he enjoyed the society of Swift, Pope, &c., and conducted the Craftsman, 
which commenced December 5, 1725, and opposed Sir Robert Walpole. His "Let- 
ters on the Study of History" first appeared in that publication. A collected edition 
of his works by David Mallet appeared in 1754, and "Letters and Correspondence 
with State Papers, &c.," by Rev. G. Parke, in 1798. A Life by T. Macknight was 
published in 1863. Earl Stanhope (History of England, vol. i., chap, i.) says, "As 
a writer Lord Bolingbroke is, I think, far too little admired in the present day. * * * 
But surely his style, considered apart from his matter, seems the perfection of elo- 
quence. It displays all the power and richness of the English language; and, in all 
its changes, never either soars into bombast, or sinks into vulgarity. We may ob- 
serve with admiration, that, even when defending the cause of tyranny, he knows 
how to borrow his weapons from the armoury of freedom. The greatest praise of 
Bolingbroke's style is, that it was the study and the model of the two greatest minds of 
the succeeding generation — Mr. Burke and Mr. Pitt."] 

What has been said concerning the mnltiplicity of histories, and of 
historical memorials, wherewith our libraries abound since the resurrec- 
tion of letters happened, and the art of printing began, puts me in 
mind of another general rule, that ought to be observed by every man 
who intends to make a real improvement, and to become wiser as 
well as better, by the study of history. I hinted at this rule in a 
former letter, where I said that we should neither grope in the dark, 
nor wander in the light. History must have a certain degree of pro- 
bability and authenticity, or the examples we find in it would not 
carry a force sufficient to make due impressions on our minds, nor to 
illustrate nor to strengthen the precepts of philosophy and the rules of 
good policy. But besides, when histories have this necessary authen- 
ticity and probability, there is much discernment to be employed in 
the choice and the use we make of them. Some are to be read, 
some are to be studied ; and some may be neglected entirely, not 
only without detriment, but with advantage. Some are the proper 
objects of one man's curiosity, some of another's, and some of all 
men's -, but all history is not an object of curiosity for any man. He 
who improperly, wantonly, and absurdly makes it so, indulges a sort 
of canine appetite : the curiosity of one, like the hunger of the other, 
devours ravenously and without distinction whatever falls in its way 3 



442 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Shelley. 

but neither of them digests. They heap crudity upon crudity, and 
nourish and improve nothing but their distemper. Some such cha- 
racters I have known, though it is not the most common extreme into 
which men are apt to fall. One of them I knew in this country. 
He joined, to a more than athletic strength of body, a prodigious 
memory j and to both a prodigious industry. He had read 
almost constantly twelve or fourteen hours a day, for five-and- 
twenty or thirty years 3 and had heaped together as much learn- 
ing as could be crowded into an head. In the course of 
my acquaintance with him, I consulted him once or twice, not 
oftener -, for I found this mass of learning of as little use to me as to 
the owner. The man was communicative enough ; but nothing was 
distinct in his mind. How could it be otherwise? he had never spared 
time to think, all was employed in reading. His reason had not the 
merit of common mechanism. When you press a watch or pull a 
clock, they answer your question with precision; for they repeat ex- 
actly the hour of the day, and tell you neither more nor less than you 
desire to know. But when you asked this man a question, he over- 
whelmed you with pouring forth all that the several terms or words of 
your question recalled to his memory : and if he omitted anything, it 
was that very thing to which the sense of the whole question should 
have led him and confined him. To ask him a question, was to wind 
up a spring in his memory, that rattled on with vast rapidity, and con- 
fused noise, till the force of it was spent : and you went away with 
all the noise in you ears, stunned and un-informed. I never left him 
that I was not ready to say to him, " Dieu vous fasse la grace de 
" devenir moins savant !" a wish that La Mothe le Vayer mentions 
upon some occasion or other, and that he would have done well to 
have apphed to himself upon many. 

He who reads with discernment and choice, will acquire less learn- 
ing, but more knowledge : and as this knowledge is collected with 
design, and cultivated with art and method, it will be at all times of 
immediate and ready use to himself and others. — Letters on the Study 
and Use of History. Letter IV. Part 2. 



188.— THE SKY-LARK. 

[Shelley, 1792 — 1821, 

[Percy Bvsshe Shelley, born at Field Place, near Horsham, Sussex, Aug. 4, 1792, 
and educated at Eton, went to Oxford, from which he was expelled in 181 1 for 
having published a pamphlet entitled, "A Defence of Atheism." He contracted 
a mariiage with Harriet Wcstbrook, daughter of a retired innkeeper, in 181 1, was 



Shelley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 443 

separated from her in 18 13, and after her death married Mary Wollstonecraft 
Godwin.* He took his final departure from England in March, 1818, resided some 
time at Rome, was with Lord Byron at Venice in 1820, and having settled near 
Lerica, in the Gulf of Spezia early in 1823, perished July 8 of that year in a 
squall on his return from a trip to Leghorn. Shelley's best known works are 
"Queen Mab," published in 1813; "The Revolt of Islam," in 1818; "The 
Cenci: a Tragedy in Five Acts," in 1817; "Prometheus Unbound: a Lyrical 
Drama, in Four Acts, with other Poems," and " Adonais : an Elegy on the Death 
of John Keats" in 1821. Some of his shorter poems, such as "The Cloud," 
"The Skylark," and "The Sensitive Plant," are very beautiful. Several memoirs of 
this poet have been published.] 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still, and higher. 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire^ 

The deep blue thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost float and run. 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight 3 
Like a star of heaven. 
In the broad day-light 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 



* The daughter of William Godwin was born in London in 1798, and died Feb. 
1, 1851. Slie wrote " Frankenstein" and other works. 



444 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Shelley. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not , 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
I'ill the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass. 
Rain-awakened flowers. 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 



Shdky.] OF MODE?.:' L:TZ?.ATV7.E. 445 

'•■ -l:l: r- rr: :_i: :^:i:i are rhine : 

That panted forth a flood of rapture so dhine. 

Cboms hjmeneal. 

Or trrainpbal channt. 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thj happy strain ? 
"What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 

What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? w^hat ignorance of pain t 

With thy dear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep ; 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream. 
Oh how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

"V^'e look before and aiter^, 

And pine i^r ^vh^t is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught: 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fearj 
If we were things bom 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 



446 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Watts. 

Better than all measures 

Of delight and sound. 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
The world should hsten then, as I am listening now. 



189.— THERE IS A GODo 

[Dr. Watts, 1674 — 1748. 

[Isaac Watts, born at Southampton, July 17, 1674, and brought up as a Dissenter, 
became tutor in Sir John Havtopp's family, at Stoke Newington, in 1696, and an 
independent minister in 1698, having preached his first sermon July 17. He fell 
into delicate health, and resided with Sir Thomas Abney, at Theobalds, from 1 712 
till his death, which occurred Nov. 25, 1748. He received the D.D. degree from 
the Universities of Edinburgh and Aberdeen in 1728. I-Je wrote "Logic; or, the 
Right Use of Reason in the Inquiry after Truth," published in 1725 ; " Dissertations 
relating to the Christian Doctrine of the Trinity" in 1726; "Improvement of the 
Mind; or. Supplement to the Art of Logic," in 1741; a variety of sermons and 
lectures and other works. He is, however, best known by his "Psalms and Hymns," 
which appeared in 17 19. A collected edition of his works was published in 1753, 
and was reissued with a memoir by the Rev. G. Burder in 1810. "Life, Times, and 
Correspondence," by the Rev. T. Milner, appeared in 1834.] 

It must be known by the light of nature, that there is a God, before 
we can reasonably have any thing to do v/ith Scripture, or believe his 
word. Now the shortest and plainest way to come at the knowledge 
of God by the light of nature, is by considering the whole frame of 
this visible world, and the various parts of it. Hereby we shall not 
only find that there is a God, but we shall learn in a great measure 
what is his nature also. 

A man cannot open his eyes, but he sees many objects round 
about him which did not make themselves : The birds, the beasts 
and the fishes, the herbs and the trees, the fire and the water, all 
seem to confess that they were not their own creators, for they cannot 
preserve themselves : Nor did we give being to ourselves or to them, 
because we can neither preserve ourselves nor them in being. 

Besides there is an infinite variety of instances in the constant 
regular motions of the planets, the influences of the sun and moon. 



Watts.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 447 

in the wondrous composition of plants and animals, and in their 
several properties and operations, as well as in the very structure of 
our own bodies, and the faculties of our minds ; which sufficiently 
discover there must be some superior and divine power and wisdom, 
which both contrived and created their natures and ours, and gave 
being both to them and us. 

Thus it appears that the first notion we have of God, by the hght 
of nature, is the Creator of all things. Thence it follows, that he 
must be before all those things which he has made 3 therefore he must 
be the first of beings. 

And it is plain, that he could have no beginning, and that there 
was no time when God was not ; for then he could never have begun 
to be 5 since there was nothing that could create him, nor can there 
be any reason why he should of himself start out of nothing into 
being at any moment, if he had not been before : So that since we 
have proved that there is a God, we may be sure that he ever was, or 
that he was from all eternity. 

Now the same argument which proves that he had no beginning, 
will infer also, that he can have no end : For as nothing could give him 
being, nothing can take it away. He depends not on any thing for 
leave to exist, since nothing in nature could possibly concur or contri- 
bute any thing toward his existence. Nor does his being depend on 
any arbitrary act of his own will, for he did not create himself. Nor 
can he himself wish, or will, or desire not to be, because he is perfectly 
wise, and knows it is best for him for ever to exist 3 and, therefore, he 
must exist, or be for ever. 

And this is what the learned call a necessary being 3 that is, one 
who ever was, and ever must be 3 without beginning and without end. 
And this, in many of their writings, is justly made to be the great and 
eminent distinction between God and the creature 3 viz. that the 
creatures might be, or not be, as God pleases 3 but God always was, 
and always will be : He must necessarily have a being from everlast- 
ing to everlasting. 

As his works discover his existence, or his being 3 so the greatness 
of his works shows the greatness of his power. He that made all 
things out of mere nothing, must be Almighty : He that has con- 
trived all things with such exquisite art, must be all wise and all 
knowing ; and he that has furnished this lower world with such in- 
numerable rich varieties of light and food, of colours, sounds, smells, 
and tastes, and materials for all the conveniences of life, to support and 
to entertain our natures, he must be a Being of unspeakable goodness. 

It appears yet with fuller evidence, that God is the chiefest, the 
greatest, tlie wisest, and tlie best of beings, when we consider more 



448 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Watts. 



particularly, that all the power, knowledge, wisdom, and goodness, all 
the virtues and excellencies, and the very natures of all other beings 
are derived from God, and given to the creatures by God their 
Creatorj and therefore he must, in some glorious and eminent manner, 
possess all perfections and excellencies himself, for nothing can give 
to another that which itself has not. 

Thus the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth 
his handy-work, as the holy Psalmist"* assures us. And thus the invisi- 
lle things of God from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being un- 
derstood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and godhead.\ 

The light of reason, or nature, further teaches us, that such an al- 
mighty Being, who by his own power and wisdom has created all 
things out of nothing, must needs be the sovereign Lord, the absolute 
possessor and proprietor of all his creatures, they must be all at his 
disposal, and under his government. And as for the intelligent parts of 
his creation, such as men and angels, it is the very law of their natures, 
that they ought to love, worship, and obey him that made them, to 
pray to him for what they want, and to praise him for what they re- 
ceive, and thence he becomes the proper object of worship. 

Reason itself assures us, that he who hath shown such exquisite 
wisdom, even in the formation of his inanimate creatures, and in his 
disposal and management of them agreeably to those purposes for 
which they are fitted, will manifest also the same wisdom in governing 
his intelligent creatures, and bestow those rewards or punishments on 
them for which they are fitted, agreeably to their tempers, characters, 
and actions. And this is properly called the righteousness or equity 
of God, or his governing justice. — Jhe Christian Doctrine of the 
Trinity. Proposition I. 



190.— BUTLER'S MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 

[Dr. Whewell, 1794 — 1866. 

[William Wiiewell, born of humble parentage at Lancaster, in 1794, was educated 
at the grammar school in his native place, and at Trinity College, Cambridge, where 
he took his B.A. degree in 1816. He was elected Professor of Mineralogy m 
1828, resigned in 1832; was made Professor of Moral Philosophy in 1838, and 
Master of Trinity in 1841. He died from the effects of a fall from his horse, March 
5, 1866. Dr. Whewell wrote numerous valuable works, the most important being 
" History of the Inductive Sciences from the Earliest to the Present Times," pub- 
lished in 1837; " Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences," in 1840; "Lectures on the 



* Psalm xix. i. f Rom. i. 20. 



1 



Whewel].] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 449 

History of Moral Philosophy in England/' in 1852; "Philosophy of Discovery, 
Historical and Actual," and "History of Moral Philosophy," in i860. Dr. 
Whewell, who wrote several mathematical works, contributed to the Transactions 
of the Philosophical and other Societies.] 

To assert the existence of a Moral Faculty more clearly and positively 
than had yet been done, without encumbering himself with too syste- 
matic a description or definition of its nature, was the merit of Butler, 
at the period when Hutcheson* was publishing his assertion of the 
Moral Sense. All truths are seen dimly before they are seen clearly ; — 
are conveyed in a vague and confused shape before they are expressed 
in a definite and lucid form. The analysis of bodies into their elements 
employed many generations, and was for centuries most obscurely 
and imperfectly apprehended ; and yet, during these centuries, philo- 
sophers were travelling towards the truth, and were at every point 
obtaining positive truths of great importance. The analysis of the 
mind, like the analysis of matter, may be imperfect, and yet valuable. 
It is no proof of an absence of worth and importance in the doctrine 
of a Moral Faculty, that at first, the boundaries of such a Faculty 
seem vague, and even its independence questionable. It is of far more 
importance to prove the reality of its ofiice, and to show that its exis- 
tence gives a consistent and satisfactory account of those moral rules 
and convictions which the doctrine of consequences cannot explain. 

In order to do this without making any superfluous assumption, 
Butler appears purposely to have shunned any appearance of technical 
names for the elements of our moral constitution on which he specu- 
lated ; and to have studiously varied his phrases. Thus he speaks of 
mans being a law to himself; of a dijference in kind among mans 
principles of action ^ as well as a difference of strength; of an internal 
constitution in which conscience has a natural and rightful supremacy ; 
along with other forms of expression. 

But the course thus taken by Butler had inconveniences as well as 
advantages. Clarkef adopted the received and metaphysical phrase- 
ology of his times, which, so far as moral philosophy was concerned. 



* Francis Hutcheson, a native of Ireland, born in 1694, revived a taste for meta- 
physics in Scotland. He published " An Inquiry into the Original of our Ideas of 
Beauty and Virtue" in 1726, and a treatise "On the Nature and Conduct of the 
Passions" in 1728. He was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy at Glasgow in 
1729, and his chief work, "A System of Moral Philosophy," did not appear till after 
his death, which occurred in 1747. 

t Dr. Samuel Clarke, born in 1675, and died May 17, 1729. His works, with some 
account of the author, by Benjamin (Hoadly), Bishop of Winchester, appeared in 
1738. 



4SO THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Trollope. 

was not well adapted for tracing out his doctrines in a forcible and clear 
manner. Butler avoided this error 3 but was, in this manner, constantly 
driven to periphrastic and indirect modes of expression which blunt the 
point and obscure the aim of his reasonings. Hence, though he lays 
down his arguments in a clear and orderly manner, in good plain 
language, and with sufficient detail of steps and circumstances, he has 
always been found, by common readers, a difficult and obscure writer. 
And this was the opinion entertained of him in his own time by men 
of the world. '' The bishop of Durham," says Horace Walpole, " had 
been wafted to that see in a cloud of metaphysics, and remained 
absorbed in it." 

Joseph Butler, of whom I speak, was educated for the ministry of 
the dissenters, but was brought over to the episcopal church by his 
conviction of its valid claims. When yet young, and unknown, the 
interest which he took in speculations such as those of Clarke, had led 
him to enter into a correspondence with that divine, in which he dis- 
played great acuteness and ability. This correspondence is published 
at the end of the later editions of the Discourse on the Being and Attri- 
butes of God. Butler soon after became Preacher at the Rolls Chapel 
(in 17 18), and his sermons preached there were published a few years 
later. It is in these sermons particularly that his moral doctrines are 
to be found. — Lectures on the History of Moral Philosophy in England. 
Lecture viii. 



191.— THE BISHOP'S CHAPLAIN. 

[Anthony Trollope, 1815. 

[Anthony Trollope, son of Mrs. Trollope, the authoress, born in 1815, was edu- 
cated at Winchester and at Harrow, and has written numerous works. " The Mac- 
dermots of Ballycloran," published in 1847, ^^^ followed by " The Warden, a 
Novel," in 1855; " Barchester Towers, a Novel," in 1857; "The West Indies and 
the Spanish Main," in 1859; " Framley Parsonage," in 1861 ; "Can You Forgive 
Her?" in 1864; "The Last Chronicle of Barset," a serial, in 1866-7 j and numer- 
ous works. He has contributed to the " Cornhill Magazine," the " Pall Mall 
Gazette," and other periodicals.] 

Mr. Slope soon comforted him,self with the reflection, that as he had 
been selected as chaplain to the bishop, it would probably be in his 
power to get the good things in the bishop's gift, without troubhng 
himself with the bishop's daughter ; and he found himself able to 
endure the pangs of rejected love. As he sat himself down in the rail- 
way carriage, confronting the bishop and Mrs. Proudie, as they started 
on their first journey to Barchester, he began to form in his own mind 
a plan of his future life. He knew well his patron's strong points, but 



Trollope.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 45, 

he knew the weak ones as well. He understood correctly enough to 
what attempts the Dew bishop's high spirit would soar^ and he rightly 
guessed that public life would better suit the great man's taste^ than the 
small details of diocesan duty. 

He, therefore, he, Mr. Slope, would in effect be bishop of Barchester. 
Such was his resolve 3 and to give Mr. Slope his due, he had both 
courage and spirit to bear him out in his resolution. He knew that he 
should have a hard battle to fight, for the power and patronage of the 
see would be equally coveted by another great mind — Mrs. Proudie 
would also choose to be bishop of Barchester. Slope, however, flattered 
himself that he could out-manoeuvre the lady. She must live much 
in London, while he would always be on the spot. She would neces- 
sarily remain ignorant of much, while he would know everything 
belonging to the diocese. At first, doubtless, he must flatter and 
cajole, perhaps yield, in some things 3 but he did not doubt of ultimate 
triumph. If all other means failed, he could join the bishop against 
his wife, inspire courage into the unhappy man, lay an axe to the root 
of the woman's power, and emancipate the husband. 

Such were his thoughts as he sat looking at the sleeping pair in the 
railway carriage, and Mr. Slope is not the man to trouble himself with 
such thoughts for nothing. He is possessed of more than average 
abilities, and is of good courage. Though he can stoop to fawn, and 
stoop low indeed, if need be, he has still within him the power to 
assume the tyrant ; and with the power he has certainly the wish. His 
acquirements are not of the highest order, but such as they are they are 
completely under control, and he knows the use of them. He is gifted 
with a certain kind of pulpit eloquence, not likely indeed to be per- 
suasive with men, but powerful with the softer sex. In his sermons he 
deals greatly in denunciations, excites the minds of his weaker hearers 
with a not unpleasant terror, and leaves an impression on their minds 
that all mankind are in a perilous state, and all womankind too, except 
those who attend regularly to the evening lectures in Baker Street. 
His looks and tones are extremely severe, so much so that one cannot 
but fancy that he regards the greater part of the world as being infinitely 
too bad for his care. As he walks through the streets, his very face 
denotes his horror of the world's wickedness 3 and there is always an 
anathema lurking in the corner of his eye. 

In doctrine, he, like his patron, is tolerant of dissent, if so strict a 
mind can be called tolerant of anything. With Wesleyan Methodists 
he has something in common, but his soul trembles in agony at the 
iniquities of the Puseyites. His aversion is carried to things outward 
as well as inward. His gall rises at a new church with a high-pitched 
roof 3 a full-breasted black silk waistcoat is with him a symbol of 

G G 2 



452 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [TroUope. 

Satan ; and a profane jest-book would not, in his view, more foully 
desecrate the church seat of a Christian, than a book of prayer printed 
with red letters, and ornamented with a cross on the back. Most 
active clergymen have their hobby, and Sunday observances are his. 
Sunday, however, is a word which never pollutes his mouth — it is 
always "the Sabbath." The "desecration of the Sabbath," as he 
delights to call it, is to him meat and drink : — he thrives upon that as 
policemen do on the general evil habits of the community. It is the 
loved subject of all his evening discourses, tlie source of all his eloquence, 
the secret of all his power over the female heart. To him the revela- 
tion of God appears only in that one law given for Jewish observance. 
To him the mercies of our Saviour speak in vain, to him in vain has 
been preached tliat sermon which fell from divine lips on the moun- 
tain — " Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth " — 
" Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." To him the 
New Testament is comparatively of little moment, for from it can he 
draw no fresh authority for that dominion which he loves to exercise 
over at least a seventh part of man's allotted time here below. 

Mr. Slope is tall, and not ill-made. His feet and hands are large, 
as has ever been the case with all his family, but he has a broad chest 
and wide shoulders to carry off these excrescences, and on the whole his 
tigure is good. His countenance, however, is not specially prepossessing. 
His hair is lank, and of a dull pale reddish hue. It is always formed 
into three straight lumpy masses, each brushed with admirable preci- 
sion, and cemented with much grease ; two of them adhere closely to 
the sides of his face, and the other lies at right angles above them. He 
wears no whiskers, and is always punctiliously shaven. His face is 
nearly of the same colour as his hair, though perhaps a little redder : it 
is not unlike beef, — beef, however, one would say, of a bad quality. His 
forehead is capacious and high, but square and heavy, and unpleasantly 
shining. His mouth is large, though his lips are tliin and bloodless ; and 
his big, prominent, pale brown eyes inspire anything but confidence. 
His nose, however, is his redeeming feature : it is pronounced straight 
and well-formed ; though I myself should have liked it better did it 
not possess a somewhat spongy, porous appearance, as though it had 
been cleverly formed out of a red coloured cork. 

I never could endure to shake hands with Mr. Slope. A cold, 
clammy perspiration always exudes from him, the small drops are ever 
to be seen standing on his brow, and his friendly grasp is unpleasant. 

Such is Mr. Slope, — such is the man who has suddenly fallen into the 
midst of Barchester Close, and is destined there to assume the station 
which has heretofore been filled by the son of the late bishop. Think, 
oh, my meditative reader, what an associate we have here for those 



Ticknor.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 4^3 

comfortable prebendaries, those gentlemanlike clerical doctors, tJiose 
happy well-used well-fed minor canons, who have grown into existence 
at Barchester under the kindly wings of Bishop Grantly ! — Barchesier 
Towers. Chap. iv. 



192.— LAZARILLO DE TORMES, AXD ITS IMITATORS. 

rTlCKNOR, 1791. 

[George Tickxor, bom in Boston, Massachusetts, Aug. i, 1 791, was educated at 
Dartmouth CoUege, and called to the bar in 1813^ He left the United States ft>r 
Europe in 1815, studied for two years at Gottingen, and was in 181 7, while absent 
in Europe, appointed Professor of Madern Languages aad Literature at Harvard 
University. In 1819 he returned to the United States, and ha\-ing laboured in this 
professorship for fifteen years, he in 1835 again set out for Europe, and travelled on the 
Continent and in England for three years. His " History of Spanish Literature " 
appeared, both in New York and London, in 1849, ^^^ has been translated 
into Spanish and German. His " Life of W. H. Prescott, the Historian," was 
republished in London in 1864. "Whilst in England Ticknor became acquainted 
with Southey and Sir Walter Scott. The latter, writing to Southey, speaks of Ticknor 
as '' a wondrous fellow for romantic lore ctnd antiquarian research, considering his 
country."] 

The Lazarillo* is a work of genius, unlike anything that had preceded 
it. It is the autobiography of a boy — "little Lazarus" — born in a 
mill on the banks of the Tormes, near Salamanca, and sent out by 
his base and brutal mother as the leader of a blind beggar 3 the lowest 
place in the social condition, perhaps, that could then be found in Spain. 
But such as it is, Lazarillo makes the best or the worst of it. With 
an inexhaustible fund of good humour and great quickness of parts, 
he learns, at once, the cunning and profligacy that quality him to rise 
to still greater frauds and a yet wider range of adventures and crimes 
in the ser^'ice successively of a priest, a gentleman starving on his own 
pride, a friar, a seller of indulgences, a chaplain, and an alguazil, 
until, at last, from the most disgracefd motives, he settles down as a 
married man ; and then the story terminates without reaching any 
proper conclusion, and without intimating that any is to follow. 

Its object is — under the character of a ser\-ant with an acuteness 



* Stirling (" Cloister Life of Charles the Fifth," chap, vi.) appears to fevaur the 

claim of Juan de Ortega, a monk who died at Yuste in 1557, to whom the work has 
often been attributed. Ticknor assigns the authorship to Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, 
whom he terms "a scholar and a soldier, a poet and a diplomatist, a statesman and an 
historian, — a man who rose to great consideration in whatever he undertook, and one 
who was not of a temper to be satisfied with moderate success, wherever he might 
choose to make an effon." He was bom of illustrious ancestn- in Granada, in 1503, 
and died in April, 1575. "Lsizarillo de Tormes" was published at Antwerp in 1553. 
An English translation by David Rowland appeared in 1586, and another by James 
Blakestonin 1670. 



454 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ticknor. 

that is never at fault, and so small a stock of honesty and truth, 
that neither of them stands in the way of his success — to give 
a pungent satire od all classes of society, whose condition Lazarillo 
w^ell comprehends^ because he sees them in undress and behind the 
scenes. It is written in a very bold, rich, and idiomatic Castilian style, 
that reminds us of the '' Celestina j"* and some of its sketches are 
among the most fresh and spirited that can be found in the whole 
class of prose works of fiction ; so spirited, indeed, and so free, that two 
of them — those of the friar and the seller of dispensations — were soon 
put under the ban of the Church, and cut out of the editions that 
were permitted to be printed under its authority. The whole work is 
short ; but its easy, genial temper, its happy adaptation to Spanish life 
and manners, and the contrast of the light, good-humoured, flexible 
audacity of Lc^zarillo himself — a perfectly original conception — with 
the solemn and unyielding dignity of the old Castilian character, gave 
it from the first a great popularity. From 1553, when the earliest 
edition appeared of which we have any knowledge, it was often re- 
printed, both at home and abroad, and has been more or less a 
favourite in all languages, down to our own time 3 becoming the 
foundation for a class of fictions essentially national, which, under the 
name of the gusto picaresco, or the style of the rogues, is as well 
known as any other department of Spanish literature, and one which 
the '^Gil Bias" of Le Sage has made famous throughout the world. 
Like other books enjoying a wide reputation, the Lazarillo provoked 
many imitations. A continuation of it, under the title of "The 
Second Part of Lazarillo de Tormes," soon appeared, longer than the 
original, and beginning where the fiction of Mendoza leaves ofi'. But 
it is without merit, except for an occasional quaintness or witticism. It 
represents Lazarillo as going upon the expedition undertaken by 
Charles the Fifth against Algiers in 1541, and as being in one of the 
vessels that foundered in a storm, which did much towards disconcert- 
ing the whole enterprise. From this point, however, Lazarillo's story 
becomes a tissue of absurdities. He sinks to the bottom of the ocean, 
and there creeps into a cave, where he is metamorphosed into a tunny- 
fish J and the greater part of the work consists of an account of his 
glory and happiness in the kingdom of the tunnies. At last he is 



* " The Celestina," a dramatic story, is a prose composition, in twenty-one acts, or 
parts, originally called "The Tragi-comedy of Calisto and Meliboea." The first act, 
produced about 1480, is attributed to Rodrigo Cota, of Toledo, and the remainder to 
Fernando de Rojas of Montalvan, a bachelor of laws living at Salamanca. It is 
called by Ticknor " rather a dramatized romance than a proper drama, or even a 
well-considered attempt to produce a strictly dramatic effect." 



Eustace.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 455 

caught in a seine, and, in the agony of his fear of death, returns, by 
an eifort of his own will, to the human form 3 after which he finds 
his way back to Salamanca, and is living there when he prepares this 
strange account of his adventures. 

A further imitation, but not a proper continuation, under the name 
of *'The Lazarillo of the Manzanares," in which the state of society 
at Madrid is satirized, was attempted by Juan Cortes de Tolosa, and 
was first printed in 1620. But it produced no eifect at the time, and 
has been long forgotten. Nor was a much better fate reserved for yet 
another second part of the genuine Lazarillo, which was written by 
Juan de Luna, a teacher of Spanish at Paris, and appeared there the 
same year the Lazarillo de Manzanares appeared at Madrid. It is, 
however, more in the spirit of the original work. It exhibits Lazarillo 
again as a servant to different kinds of masters, and as gentleman- 
usher of a poor, proud lady of rank ; after which he retires from the 
world, and, becoming a religious recluse, writes this account of him- 
self, which, though not equal to the free and vigorous sketches of the 
work it professes to complete, is by no means without value, especially 
for its style. 

The author of the Lazarillo de Tormes, who, we are told, took the 
^'^ Amadis" and the " Celestina" for his travelling companions and by- 
reading, was, as we have intimated, not a person to devote himself to 
the Church 5 and we soon hear of him serving as a soldier in the great 
Spanish armies in Italy — a circumstance to which, in his old age, he 
alludes with evident pride and pleasure. At those seasons, however, 
when the troops were unoccupied, we know that he gladly listened to 
the lectures of the famous professors of Bologna, Padua, and Rome, 
and added largely to his already large stores of elegant knowledge. — 
History of Spanish Literature. Vol. I., Period II., chap. iv. 



193.— TOMBS IN ROME. 

[Rev. J. C. Eustace, — 1815. 

[John Chetwode Eustace, descended from an old Lancashire family, was educated 
at Stonyhurst, and became a Roman Catholic priest. Having travelled in the capacity 
of a tutor, he met Lord Brownlow^ and Mr. Rushbrooke at Vienna in 1801, and they 
agreed to go together on a tour through Italy, of which he gave an account in his 
best known work. In June, 1814, the Rev. J. C. Eustace accompanied Lord 
Carrington to Paris, and soon after published a " Letter from Paris." He wrote 
"An Elegy to the Memory of the Right Hon. Edmund Burke," published in 1797; 
"A Classical Tour through Italy, An. mdccii.," in 1813, and some other works, and 
is said to have made considerable progress in a poem on the culture of the youthful 
mind. A writer in the Gentieman's Magazine for June, j 831, says of this Classical 
Tour, "It is impossible to trace the pages of Eustace — eminent among other tra- 



456 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Eusace. 

vellers, without feeling a spark of that flame which seems to kindle in his own breast, 
at the recital of the architectural splendours of the 'ancient cit}-.' The heart swells 
with a generous and gratulatory emotion while contemplating the elevation ot 
thought, the puritj- and grandeur of design, which inspired a race of beings to the 
achievement of works whose consummate skill and astounding magnificence have 
few or no parallels in the degenerate days of modern times." Eustace died at Naples 
of a fever in 1815.] 

In ancient times the bodies of the deceased were deposited without 
the wallsj generall}'' along the most frequented roads^ where their 
tombs arose at intervals and under various forms, shaded by cypresses 
and other funereal plants, and exhibited on both sides a long and melan- 
choly border of sorrow and mortality. Few persons were allowed the 
honour of being buried in the city or in the Campus JNIartius, and of 
the few tombs raised within its space during the republic, one only re- 
mains in a narrow street^ the Macello di Corvi (the Crow's Shambles), 
near the Capitoline hill. It is of a solid but simple form, and in- 
scribed with the name of Caius Publicius Bibulus ; and as the only one 
of that name mentioned in history is distinguished by no brilliant 
achievement, but only represented as a popular tribune, it is diffic<ilt to 
discover tlie reason of the honourable exception. 

Under the Emperors, certain illustrious persons were allowed tombs 
in the Campus IVlartias, or in its neighbourhood 3 and these monu- 
mental edifices at length swelled into superb mausoleums, and became 
some of the most majestic ornaments of the city. Of these the two 
principal were the sepulchres of Augustus and of Adrian, and although 
both belong to the ruins of ancient Rome, and have already been 
alluded to, yet as they still form even tliough shattered and disfigured, 
two very conspicuous features in the modern city, the reader may 
expect a more detailed description of them. 

The best and indeed the only ancient account of the former monu- 
ment denominated by way of eminence the Mausoleum, is given by 
Strabo, who represents it as a pendent garden raised on lofty arches of 
M'hite stone, planted with evergreen shrubs, and terminating in a point 
crowned with the statue of Augustus. In the vault beneath lay the 
remains of the Emperor and of his family; at the entrance stood two 
Egyptian obelisks ; round, arose an extensive grove cut into walks and 
alleys. Of this monument, the two inner \vd.\h which supported the 
whole mass, and the spacious vaults under which reposed the imperial 
ashes, still remain ; a work of great solidity and elevation. Hence it 
is seen at a considerable distance, and continues still a grand and 
striking object. The platform on the top was for a considerable time 
employed as a garden, and covered originally, with shrubs and 
flowers. It is now converted into a sort of amphitheatre, and sur- 
rounded with seats and benches, where the spectators may enjoy in 



Brewster.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 457 

safety the favourite amusement of bull-baiting. We attended at this 
exhibition, in which not dogs only but men act as assailants, and we 
thought it, although conducted with as much precaution, and even 
humanity as it is susceptible of, too dangerous to amuse persons not 
accustomed to contemplate hair-breadth escapes. This edifice owes 
its preservation to its solidity. It has been stripped of its marble, ot 
its pilasters, and of its internal and external decorations ; it has be- 
longed successively to numberless individuals, and is still I believe 
private property. Such a monument, after having escaped so many 
chances of ruin, ought not to be neglected. Government should pur- 
chase it, should disengage it from the petty buildings that crowd 
around it and conceal its form and magnitude 3 should case it anew 
with Tiburrine stone, and devote it under some form or other to public 
utility. Thus some portion of its former splendour might be restored, 
and its future existence secured as far as human foresight can extend its 
influence. — A Classial Tour through Italy, third edit. 18 f 5. Vol. II., 
chap. i. 

194.— NEWTON'S THEORY OF THE TIDES. 

[Sir D. Brewster, 1781 — 1868. 

[David Brewster, born at Jedburgh, Dec. 11, 1781, and educated for the Church 
of Scotland, undertook the editorship of the " Edinburgh Encyclopedia" in 1808. He 
received honorary degrees from various Universities in England and Scotland. In 
18 1 5 the Royal Society awarded him the Copley Medal for his discovery of the law of the 
polarization of light by reflexion; in 1816 the Institute of France adjudged him half 
of the prize of 3000 francs given for the most important discoveries made in Europe 
in any branch of science during the two preceding years; and in 18 19 the Royal 
Society awarded him the Rumford gold and silver medals. In 1825 he was elected a 
corresponding member of the Institute of France; in 1832 was knighted by 
Willicim IV. ; and in 1848 was elected one of the eight foreign associates of the 
Imperial Institute of France. He became principal of the united colleges of St. 
Salvator and St. Leonard, St. Andrews, in 1838, Principal of the University of Edin- 
burgh in 1859, ^"d died Feb. 10, 1868. Sir D. Brewster, who made many important 
inventions, amongst which lenses for light-houses and the kaleidoscope are best known, 
wrote "The Martyrs of Science," published in 1846; "More Worlds Than One," 
being an answer to Dr. Whewell's "Plurality of Worlds," in 1854; "Memoirs 
of the Life, Writings, and Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton," in 1855; numerous 
scientific works, and contributed to the Quarterly Reviews, and to the Transactions 
of scientific societies.] 

The next subject to which Newton applied the principle of gravity, 
was the tides of the ocean. The philosophers of all ageshad recognised 
the connexion between the phenomena of the tides and the position of 
the moon. The College of Jesuits at Coimbra, and subsequently 
Antonio de Dominis and Kepler, distinctly referred the tides to the 
attraction of the waters of the earth by the moon, but so imperfect 
was the explanation which was thus given of the phenomena, tiiat 



458 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Brewster. 

Galileo ridiculed the idea of lunar attraction, and substituted for it a 
fallacious explanation of his own. That the moon is the principal 
cause of the tides is obvious from the well-known fact, that it is high 
water at any given place a short time after she is in the meridian of 
that place ; and that the sun performs a secondary part in their pro- 
duction, may be proved from the circumstance, that the highest tides 
take place when the sun, the moon, and the earth are in the same 
straight line, — that is, when the force of the sun conspires with that 
of the moon ; and that the lowest tides take place when the lines 
drawn from the sun and moon to the earth are at right angles to each 
other, — that is, when the force of the sun acts in opposition to that 
of the moon. The most perplexing phenomenon in the tides of the 
ocean, and one which is still a stumbling-block to persons slightly 
acquainted with the theory of attraction, is the existence of high water 
on the side of the earth opposite to the moon, as well as on the side 
next the earth. To maintain that the attraction of the moon at the 
same instant draws the waters of the ocean towards herself, and also 
draws them from the earth in an opposite direction, seems at first 
sight paradoxical ; but the difficulty vanishes when we consider the 
earth, or rather the centre of the earth, and the water on each side of 
it, as three distinct bodies, placed at different distances from the moon, 
and consequently attracted with forces inversely proportional to the 
squares of their distances. The water nearest the moon will be much 
more powerfully attracted than the centre of the earth, and the centre 
of the earth more powerfully than the water farthest from the moon. 
The consequence of this must be, that the waters nearest the moon 
will be drawn away from the centre of the earth, and will conse- 
quently rise from their level, while the centre of the earth will be 
drawn away from the waters opposite the moon, which will, as it were, 
be left behind, and consequently be in the same situation as if they 
were raised from the earth in a direction opposite to that in which 
they are attracted by the moon. Hence the effect of the moon's 
action upon the earth is to draw its fluid parts into the form of an 
oblong spheroid, the axis of which passes through the moon. As the 
action of the sun will produce the very same effect, though in a 
smaller degree, the tide at any place will depend on the relative posi- 
tion of these two spheroids : and will be always equal either to the sum, 
or to the difference of the effects of the two luminaries. At the 
time of new and full moon, the two spheroids will have their axes 
coincident; and the height of the tide, which then will be a spring 
one, will be equal to the sum of the elevations produced in each 
spheroid considered separately, while at the first and third quarters the 
axes of the spheroids will be at right angles to each other, and the 



Brewster.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 459 

height of the tide, which will then be a 7ieap one, will be equal to the 
difference of the elevations produced in each separate spheroid. By 
comparing the spring and neap tides, Newton found that the force 
with which the moon acted upon the waters of the earth, was to that 
with which the sun acted upon them as 4*48 to [ ; — that the force 
of the moon produced a tide of 8 '63 feet 3 — that of the sun one of 
1*93 feet 3 — and both combined, one of io| feet, — a result which, in 
the open sea, does not deviate much from observation. Having thus 
ascertained the force of the moon on the waters of our globe, he found 
that the quantity of water in the moon was to that in the earth as 
I to 40, and the density of the moon to that of the earth as 1 1 to 9. 

The motions of the moon, so much within the reach of our own 
observation, presented a fine field for the application of the theory of 
universal gravitation. The irregularities exhibited in the lunar motions 
had been known in the time of Hipparchus and Ptolemy. Tycho 
had discovered the great inequality called the variation, amounting to 
37', and depending on the alternate acceleration and retardation of 
the moon by the action of the sun in every quarter of a revolution : 
and he had also ascertained the existence of the annual equation. Of 
these two inequalities, Newton gave a most satisfactory explanation, 
making the first 3 6' 10'', and the other ii'ji'', differing only a few 
iseconds from the numbers adopted by Tobias Mayer in his celebrated 
Lunar Tables. The force exerted by the sun upon the moon may be 
always resolved into two forces, one acting in the direction of the line 
joining the moon and the earth, and consequently tending to increase 
or diminish the moon's gravity to the earth 3 and the other in a 
direction at right angles to this, and consequently tending to accelerate 
or retard the motion in her orbit. Now, it was found by Newton 
that this last force was reduced to nothing, or vanished at the syzygies 
or quadratures, so that at these four points the described areas are 
proportional to the times. The instant, however, that the moon quits 
these positions, the force under consideration, which we may call the 
tangential force, begins, and it reaches its maximum in the four octants. 
The force, therefore, compounded of these two elements of the solar 
force, or the diagonal of the parallelogram which they form, is no 
longer directed to the earth's centre, but deviates from it at a maxi- 
mum about thirty minutes, and therefore affects the angular motion 
of the moon, the motion being accelerated in passing from the quadra- 
tures to the syzygies, and retarding in passing from the syzygies to the 
quadratures. Hence the velocity is, in its mean state, in the octants, 
a maximum in the syzygies, and a minimum in the quadratures. — 
Memoirs of the Life, Writings, and Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton. 
Vol. I., chap. xii. 



460 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lord Derby. 



195.— HECTOR'S ADDRESS TO THE TROJAN CHIEFS. 

[Lord Derby, 1799 — 1869. 

[Edward Geoffrey Stanley, bom at Knowsley Park, Lancashire, March 29, 1799, 
and educated at Eton and at Christ Church, Oxford, entered the House of Commons 
as member for Stockbridge in 182 1. Having held office in various administrations, 
he was summoned to the House of Lords, as Baron Stanley of Bickerstaffe, in Sept. 
1844, ^i^d succeeded his father as fourteenth Earl of Derby June 30, 185 1. From 
Feb. till Dec. 1852, and from Feb. 1858, till June, 1859, ^'^ lordship acted as Prime 
Minister, was entrusted with the task of forming a third administration in June, 
1866, and resigned on account of failing health in February, 1868. Lord Derby, 
who was elected Chancellor of the University of Oxford in 1852, was made a Knight 
of the Garter in 1859, ^'^^ published a translation of the "Iliad of Homer" in blank 
verse in 1865. The proceeds of the sale of the work, which rapidly passed through 
six editions, are devoted to a scholarship at Wellington College. Died 1869.] 

The sun, now sunk beneath the ocean wave 
Drew o'er the teeming earth the veil of night. 
The Trojans saw, reluctant, day's decline 3 
But on the Greeks thrice welcome, thrice invoked 
With earnest prayers, the shades of darkness fell. 

The noble Hector then to council called 
The Trojan leaders ; from the ships apart 
He led them, by the eddying river's side. 
To a clear space of ground, from corpses free. 
They from their cars dismounting, to the words 
Of godlike Hector hstened : in his hand 
His massive spear he held, twelve cubits long, 
Whose glittering point flashed bright, with hoop of gold 
Encircled round ; on this he leant, and said, 
*' Hear me, ye Trojans, Dardans, and Allies ; 
I hoped that to the breezy heights of Troy 
We might ere now in triumph have returned. 
The Grecian ships and all the Greeks destroyed j 
But night hath come too soon, and saved awhile 
The Grecian army and their stranded ships. 
Then yield we to the night ; prepare the meal j 
Unyoke your horses, and before them place 
Their needful forage 3 from the city bring 
Oxen and sheep 5 the luscious wine provide j 
Bring bread from out our houses ; and collect 
Good store of fuel, that the livelong night. 
Even till the dawn of day, may broadly blaze 
Our numerous watchfires, and illume the Hea vens ; 
Lest, even by night, the long-haired Greeks should seek 
O'er the broad bosom of the sea to fly, 



Bp. Sherlock.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 461 



That so not unassailed they may embark. 

Nor undisturbed 3 but haply some may bear. 

Even to their homes, the memory of a wound 

Received from spear or arrow, as on board 

They leaped in haste 5 and others too may fear 

To tempt witli hostile arms the power of Troy. 

Then let the sacred heralds' voice proclaim 

Throughout the city, that the stripling youths 

And hoary-headed sires allot themselves 

In several watches to the Heaven-built towers. 

Charge too the women, in their houses each. 

To kindle blazing fires ; let careful watch 

Be set, lest, in the absence of the men. 

The town by secret ambush be surprised. 

Such, valiant Trojans, is the advice I give j 

And what to-night your wisdom shall approve 

Will I, at morn, before the Trojans speak. 

Hopeful, to Jove I pray, and all the Gods, 

To chase from hence these fate-inflicted hounds. 

By fate sent hither on their dark-ribbed ships. 

Now keep we through the night our watchful guard ; 

And with tlie early dawn, equipped in arms. 

Upon their fleet our angry battle pour. 

Then shall I know if Tydeus' valiant son 

Back from the ships shall drive me to the walls. 

Or I, triumphant, bear his bloody spoils : 

To-morrow morn his courage will decide. 

If he indeed my onset will await. 

But ere to-morrow's sun be high in Heaven, 

He, 'mid the foremost, if I augur right. 

Wounded and bleeding in the dust shall lie. 

And many a comrade round him. Would to Heaven 

I were as sure to be from age and death 

Exempt, and held in honour as a God, 

Phoebus, or Pallas, as I am assured 

The coming day is fraught with ill to Greece." 

The Iliad. Book. VIII. 



196.— THE EXCELLENCY OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION. 

[Bp. Sherlock, 1678 — 1761. 

[Thomas Sherlock, son of Dr. William Sherlock, Dean of St. Paul's, born in London 
in 1768, was educated at Eton and Catherine Hall, Cambridge, where he took his 



462 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Bp. Sherlock. 

M.A. degree in 1701. He was made Master of the Temple in 1704, Vice-Chancellor 
of Cambridge, and D.D. in 1714, Dean of Chichester in 1716, Bishop of Bangor in 
1727, and was transferred to Salisbury in 1734. Having refused the Archbishopric 
of Canterbury in 1747, he was translated to London in 1748. Dr. Sherlock died 
July 18, 1 761. He is the author of numerous sermons and polemical discourses. 
" The Use and Intent of Prophecy in the Several Ages of the World : to which 
are added Four Dissertations/" appeared in 1725; "The Trial of the Witnesses of 
the Resurrection of Jesus/' in 1729; and "Discourses at the Temple Church/' in 
1754. An edition of the latter, with a summary and notes, by T. S. Hughes, 
appeared in 1830.] 

Religion is founded in the principles of reason and nature 5 and, 
without supposing this foundation, it would be as rational an act to 
preach to horses as to men. k. man who has the use of reason cannot 
consider his condition and circumstances in this world, or reflect on his 
notions of good and evil, and the sense he feels in himself that he is an 
accountable creature for the good or evil he does, without asking him- 
self how he came into this world, and for what purpose, and to whom 
it is that he is, or possibly maybe accountable. When, by tracing his own 
being to the original, he finds that there is one supreme all-wise Cause 
of all things ; when by experience he sees that this world neither is nor 
can be the place for taking a jast and adequate account of the actions 
of men ; the presumption that there is another state after this, in which 
men shall live, grows strong and almost irresistible 3 when he considers 
further the fears and hopes of nature with respect to futurity, the fear 
of death common to all, the desire of continuing in being, which never 
forsakes us ; and reflects for what use and purpose these strong im- 
pressions were given us by the Author of nature; he cannot help con- 
cluding that man was made not merely to act a short part upon the 
stage of this world, but that there is another and more lasting state, to 
which he bears relation. And from hence it must necessarily follow 
that his religion must be formed on a view of securing a future 
happiness. 

Since, then, the end that men propose to themselves by religion is 
such, it will teach us wherein the true excellency of religion consists. 
If eternal life and future happiness are what we aim at, that will be the 
best religion which will most certainly lead us to eternal life and future 
happiness : and it will be to no purpose to compare religions together 
in any other respects, which have no relation to this end. 

Let us then by this rule examine the pretensions of revelation, and, 
as we go along, compare it with the present state of natural religion, 
that we may be able to judge 'to whom we ought to go.' 

Eternal life and happiness are out of our power to give ourselves, or 
to obtain by any strength and force, or any policy or wisdom. Could 
our own arm rescue us from the jaws of death, and the powers of the 



Bp. Sherlock.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 463 

kingdom of darkness 3 could we set open the gates of heaven for our- 
selves, and enter in to take possession of life and glory, we should want 
no instructions or assistances from reHgion 5 since what St. Peter said of 
Christ, every man might apply to himself, and say, '*■ I have the words, 
or means, of eternal life." 

But, since we have not this power of life and death, and since there 
is One who has, who governeth all things in heaven and in earth, who 
is over all God blessed for evermore, it necessarily follows that either 
we must have no share or lot in the glories of futurity, or else that we 
must obtain them from God, and receive them as his gift and favour 3 
and consequently if eternal life be the end of religion, and likewise the 
gift of God, religion can be nothing else but the means proper to be 
made use of by us to obtain of God this most excellent and perfect 
gift of eternal life : for, if eternal hfe be the end of rehgion, reHgion 
must be the means of obtaining eternal life : and, if eternal life can 
only be had from the gift of God, religion must be the means 01 
obtaining this gift of God. 

And thus far all religions that ever have appeared in the world 
have agreed : the question has never yet been made by any, whether 
God is to be applied to for eternal happiness or no ; but every sect 
has placed its excellency in this, that it teaches the properest and most 
effectual way of making this application. Even natural religion pre- 
tends to no more than this : it claims not eternal life as the right of 
nature, but the right of obedience, and of obedience to God, the Lord 
of nature : and the dispute between natural and revealed religion is not, 
whether God is to be applied to for eternal happiness ; but only, 
whether nature or revelation can best teach us how to make this 
application. 

Prayers, and praises, and repentance for sins past are acts of devotion, 
which nature pretends to instruct and direct us in : but why does she 
teach us to pray, to praise, or to repent, but that she esteems one to be 
the proper method of expressing our wants, the other of expressing our 
gratitude, and the third of making atonement for iniquity and oifences 
against God r In all these acts reference is had to the over-ruling 
power of the Almighty ; and they amount to this confession, that the 
upshot of all religion is, to please God in order to make ourselves 
happy. — Several Discourses preached at the Temple Church. Discourse 
I., Part II. John vi. 67-69. 



464 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Priestley. 



197.— OF THE NATURAL SIGNS OF THE PASSIONS. 

[Priestley, 1733 — 1804. 
[Joseph Priestley, son of a cloth draper, born at Fieldhead, near Leeds, March 13, 
1733 (O.S.), educated at a free school and a Dissenting academy at Daventry, became 
a minister at Needham Market, in Suffolk, in 1755. He became librarian to Lord 
Shelburne in 1 773, and accompanied him on a tour in 1 774. His views were very un- 
popular, and his house at Birmingham was attacked during a riot in July, 1791. He 
embarked for the United States in 1794, and died there Feb. 6, 1804. His " History 
and Present State of Electricity" appearedn 1767; his "History and Present State of 
Discoveries Relating to Vision, Light, and Colours," and his "Institutes of Natural 
and Revealed Religion," in 1772 ; "An Examination of Dr. Reid's Inquiry into the 
Human Mind, on the Principles of Common Sense," &c., in 1774; "An History 
of the Corruptions of Christianity," in 1782; and a variety of works, of which 
collected editions appeared in 1769, 1807, and 1824. Dr. Johnson says of his 
theological woiks, " That they tended to unsettle eveiything, and yet settled nothing." 
His life by Corry appeared in 1805, and a memoir commenced by himself, and 
continued by his son, in 1806-7.] 

One would think that a man must never have heard of tlie general 
.principle of the association of ideas, who could possibly take it into his 
head that certain features, modulations of the voice, and attitudes of 
the body, require any other principle, in order to suggest the idea and 
belief of certain thoughts, purposes, and dispositions of mind. Dr. 
Reid* indeed asserts, in proof of this, that " an infant may be put into 
a fright by an angry countenance, and soothed again by smiles and 
blandishments." Now I have had children of my own, and have 
made many observations and experiments of this kind upon them, and 
upon this authority I do not hesitate absolutely to deny the fact with 
respect to them ; and I have no doubt but that the same is the case 
with respect to all other infants ; unless those of Dr. Reid should be as 
different from mine as are our notions of human nature. But nature, 
I believe, is pretty uniform in her operations and productions, how 
dill'erently soever we may conceive of them. 

Dr. Reid talks of an infant being put into a fright. On the con- 
trary, 1 assert that an infant (unless by an infant he should mean a 
child who has had a good deal of experience, and of course has made 
many observations on the connections of things) is absolutely incapable 
of terror, I am positive that no child ever showed the least symptom 
of fear or apprehension, till he had actually received hurts, and had 
felt pain ; and that children have no fear of any particular person or 
thing, but in consequence of some connection between that person or 
thing and the pain they have felt. 



* See page 275. 



Defoe.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 465 

If any instinct of this kind was more necessary than another, ii 
would be the dread of fire. But everybody must have observed that 
infants show no sign of any such thing j for they will as readily put 
their finger to the flame of a candle as to anything else, till they have 
been burned. But after some painful experience of this kind their 
dread of fire becomes one of Dr. Reid's original instinctive principles, 
and it is as quick and as eftectual in its operations as the very best of 
them. 

1, moreover, do not hesitate to say, that if it were possible alwavs 
to beat and terrify a child with a placid countenance, so as never to 
assume that appearance but in those circumstances, and always to sooth 
him with what we call an angry countenance, this natural and neces- 
sary connection of ideas that Dr. Reid talks of would be reversed, 
and we should see'n:he child frighted with a smile, and delighted 
with a frown. 

In fact, there is no more reason to believe that a child is naturally 
afraid of a frown, than he is afraid of being in the dark 5 and of this 
children certainly discover no sign, till they have either found some- 
thing disagreeable to them in the dark, or have been told that there 
is something dreadful in it. — Remarks on Dr. Reid's Inquiry into the 
Principles of the Human Mind. Sect. XI. 



198.— THE PLAGUE IN LONDON IN 1665. 

' [Defoe, 1661 — 1731. 
[Daniel De Foe, son of James Foe, a butcher, born in London in 1661, was 
educated at a Dissenting academy at Newington Green, and added the prefix to his 
name when he arrived at maturity. His first publication is said to have been a 
pamphlet against the clergy, published in 1682. He took part in Monmouth's 
rebellion, but was not punished, though he was fined, put in the pillory, and 
imprisoned for some of his writings. De Foe, who is a very voluminous author, is 
best known by his " Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of 
York, Mariner," which appeared in 1719. Of this book Dr. Johnson said, "nobody 
ever laid it down without wishing it were longer." His " History of the Great 
Plague in London in 1665, by a Citizen who continued all the while in London," 
appeared in 1722; and "Memoirs of a Cavalier," in 1724. Several collected 
editions of his works have been published, and his life has been written by 
Chalmers, Sir Walter Scott, William Hazlitt, and others. He died April 24, 1731.] 

The Plague, like a great fire, if a few houses only are contiguous where 
it happens, can only burn a few houses j or if it begins in a single, 
or, as we call it, a lone house, can only burn that lone house where it 
begins : but if it begins in a close-built town, or city, and gets a-head, 
there its fury increases, it rages over the whole place, and consumes* 
all it can reach. * * * 

It is true, hundreds, yea thousands of families fled away at this last 



466 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Defoe. 



Plague, but then of them, many fled too late, ai 1 not only died in their 
flight, but carried the distemper with them into the countries where 
they went, and infected those whom they went among for safety j 
which confounded the thing, and made that be a propagation of the 
distemper, which was the best means to prevent it ; and this too is an 
evidence of it, and brings me back to what I only hinted at before, but 
must speak more fully to here, namely, that men went about 
apparently well many days after they had the taint of the disease in 
their vitals, and after their spirits were so seized, as that they could 
never escape it ; and that all the while they did so, they were danger- 
ous to others, I say, this proves that so it wasj for such people 
infected the very towns they went through, as well as the families 
they went among j and it was by that means that almost all the 
great towns in England had the distemper among them, more or less ; 
and always they would tell you such a Londoner or such a Londoner 
brought it down. 

It must not be omitted, that when I speak of those people who were 
really thus dangerous, I suppose them to be utterly ignorant of their 
own condition ; for if they really knew their circumstances to be such 
as indeed they were, they must have been a kind of wilful murderers, 
if they would have gone abroad among healthy people, and it would 
have verified indeed the suggestion v/hich I mentioned above, are 
which I thought seemed untrue, viz., that the infected people were 
utterly careless as to giving the infection to others, and rather forward to 
do it than not j and I believe it was partly from this very thing, that 
they raised that suggestion, which I hope was not really true in fact. 

I confess no particular case is sufficient to prove a general, 
but I could name several people within the knowledge of some of their 
neighbours and families yet living, who shewed the contrary to an 
extreme. One man, a master of a family in my neighbourhood, 
having had the distemper, he thought he had it given him by a poor 
workman whom he employed, and whom he went to his house to see, 
or went for some work that he wanted to have finislied, and he had 
some apprehensions even while he was at the poor workman's door, 
but did not discover it fully, but the next day it discovered itself, and 
he was taken very ill ; upon which he immediately caused himself 
to be carried into an outbuilding which he had in his yard, and where 
there was a chamber over a workhouse, the man being a brazier j 
here he lay, and here he died, and would be tended by none of his 
neighbours, but by a nurse from abroad, and would not suffer his 
wife, nor children, nor servants, to come up into the room, lest they 
should be infected, but sent them his blessing and prayers for them by 
the nurse, who spoke it to them at a distance, and all this for fear 



A. Strickland.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 467 

of giving them the distemper, and without which, he knew as they 
were kept up, they could not have it. 

And here I must observe also, that the Plague, as I suppose all dis- 
tempers do, operated in a different manner on different constitutions ; 
some were immediately overwhelmed with it, and it came to violent 
fevers, vomitings, insufferable headaches, pains in the back, and so up 
to ravings and ragings with those pains : others with swellings and 
tumours in the neck or groin, or armpits, which, till they could be 
broke, put them into insufferable agonies and torment j while others, 
as I have observed, were silently infected, the fever preying upon their 
spirits insensibly, and they seeing little of it, till they fell into swooning, 
and faintings, and death, without pain. 

I am not physician enough to enter into the particular reasons 
and manner of these differing effects of one and the same dis- 
temper, and of its differing operation in several bodies : nor is 
it my business here to record the observations which I really 
made, because the doctors themselves have done that part much 
more effectually than I can do, and because my opinion may in some 
things differ f:om theirs : I am only relating what I know, or have 
heard, or believe, of the particular cases, and what fell within the 
compass of my view, and the different nature of the infection, as it 
appeared in the particular cases which I have related j but this maybe 
added too, that though the former sort of those cases, namely, those 
openly visited, were the worst for themselves as to pain, I mean those 
that had such fevers, vomitings, headaches, pains, and swellings, because 
they died in such a dreadful manner, yet the latter had the worst 
state of the disease 3 for in the former they frequently recovered, 
especially if the swellings broke ; but the latter was inevitable death -, 
no cure, no help, could be possible, nothing could follow but death j 
and it was worse also to others, because, as above, it secretly, and un- 
perceived by others, or by themselves, communicated death to those 
they conversed with, the penetrating poison insinuating itself into their 
blood in a manner which it is impossible to describe, or indeed con- 
ceive. — The History of' the Great Plague in London in 166^, 



199,— THE INFANCY OF EDWARD VI. 

[Miss A. Strickland, circ. 1800. 
[Agnes Strickland, born early in the nineteenth century, in childhood showed a taste 
for poetical composition, and published " Worcester Field; or, the Cavalier," a poem 
in four cantos, which was favourably noticed by Thomas Campbell. She compiled 
numerous books for children, and wrote for various periodicals. A selection of her contri- 
butions, under the title "Historic Scenes and other Poetic Fancies," appeared in 1850. 

H H 2 



468 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[A. Strickland. 



Jointly with her sister Elizabeth, she is the authoress of " The Lives of the Queens of 
England from the Norman Conquest/' published in 1840-9; and "Lives of the 
Queens of Scotland, and English Princesses connected with the Regal Succession in 
Great Britain" in 1850-9. Miss Agnes Strickland's late works are "The Bachelor 
Kings of England," published in 1861 ; "How Will It End ?" in 1865 ; and "Lives 
of the Seven Bishops," in 1866. She has prepared an abridged edition of her 
larger work for educational purposes.] 

The birth of prince Edward^ and the death of the queen, his mother,* 
were commemorated in elegant Latin lines, in allusion to her father's 
crest, a phoenix in flames within a crown. The following is the trans- 
lation, probably intended for the epitaph of the royal mother : 

" Here lies the Phoenix, lady Jane, 
Whose death a Phoenix bare. 
Oh, grief ! two Phoenixes one time 
Together never were." 

Under the fostering care of the good gentlewoman who acted as his 
wet nurse, and whom, in his first lisping accents, he subsequently called 
" mother Jak," the newborn heir of England throve well, and, as Mr. 
Secretary Wriothesley, in his despatch announcing the death of the 
queen, gravely enjoins lord William Howard to testify at the court of 
France, " sacked like a child of puissance." 

A regular household and estabhshment were appointed for this puis- 
sant prince by his august sire, of whom mother Jak and his four 
rockers were doubtless the most interesting functionaries to his grace, 
though he had sir William Sidney, the cousin of the king's brother- 
in-law, Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, and progenitor of the accom- 
plished sir Philip Sidney,t for his chamberlain, sir John Cornwallis for 
the steward of his household, with numerous other gentlemen of an- 
cient name and good reckoning, in his muster roll. 

Regulations to be observed in the royal household, for the safety 
and preservation of the infant prince, were drawn up by Henry him- 
self with great minuteness, prefaced by a declaration that, "^ even as 
God himself had the devil repugnant to him, and Christ his antichrist 
and persecutor, so doubtless the prince's grace, for all his nobility and 
innocence (albeit he had never offended any one), yet by all likelihood 
he lacked not envy and adversaries, who either for their ambition, or 
otherwise to fulfil their malicious perverse mind, would perchance, if 
they saw opportunity, which God forbid, procure his grace displeasure," 



* Edward VL was born at Hampton Court, Friday, October 12, 1537, and his 
mother, Lady Jane Seymour, died October 24, from the excitement and fatigue conse- 
quent upon the ceremony which she went through at his christening, Monday, October 
15. Edward YL ascended the throne January 28, 1547, and died July 6, 1553. 

f See page 216. 



A. Strickland.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 469 

to prevent which it was enjoined that no person of whatsoes^er rank or 
degree should approach the cradle without an order under the king's 
hand. The material of his clothing was to be carefully tested, exa- 
mmed, and considered, lest it might contain any substance of a quality 
injurious to his grace's health. His linen was to be washed by his own 
servants, and none other persons were to touch it, and nothing of any 
kind for his use brought into the nursery till it had been carefully 
washed and perfumed, the use of perfumes being, by-the-bye, any- 
thing bat a sanitary practice for an infant, especially of so tender an 
age as the new-born heir of England. "His food was to be elaborately 
tested and assayed to avert the danger of poison. The chamberlain or 
vice-chamberlain was to be present morning and evening, when his 
grace was washed and dressed, and no unauthorised person was to 
have access to his apartments, above all, pages and boys were to be ex- 
cluded, for fear of inconveniences or accidents resulting from their 
thoughtlessness. No member of his establishment was permitted to 
approach London during unhealthy seasons, lest they should be the 
means of conveying infection to his grace ; and if any beggar should 
presume to draw nearer the gates than was appointed for the reception 
of alms he was to be grievously punished for an example to others."* 

The beauty of the royal infant is thus testified by lady Lisle, in a 
letter to her husband from Hampton Court. '' His grace the prince is 
the goodliest babe that ever I set mine eyen upon. I pray God to 
make him an old man. I think I should never weary with looking 
upon him." To Margaret, lady Bryan, the daughter of Humphrey 
Bourchier, lord Berners, and widow of sir Thomas Bryan, was as- 
signed the office of lady mistress or governess to the young prince, 
she having faithfully and wisely presided ♦over the early education and 
conduct of the two princesses his sisters. f Her letters prove her to 
have been a benevolent, conscientious, and judicious person 3 and per- 
haps the amiable and noble qualities which so eminently adorned the 
character of our young bachelor king were the result of the good seeds 
implanted by this excellent lady, his earliest preceptress. 

The sylvan palace of Havering-bower was chosen for the nursery 
establishment of the young prince, and lady Bryan duly communi- 
cated the most minute particulars connected with him. In one of her 
letters, apparently in answer to an intimation she had received from 
Cromwell that she would have to exhibit her princely charge to the 
lord chancellor and other lords of the council, who had received licence 
from tlie king to visit and pay their duty to him, and that the king de- 



* Hall's MSS. t Strype's Memoirs ; Ellis j Nichols. 



470 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[Porter. 



sired her to set him forth to the best advantage, she complains of the 
unsuitable state of the prince's wardrobe, although she promises " to 
do her best to accomplish the king's command, with such things as 
she has to do it with, which," pursues her ladyship, "are but very bare 
for such a time." 

According to the following pitiful statement we find that although 
Henry VIII. vied with the king of diamonds in his own dress and 
elaborate decorations, he was not very liberal in distributing rich array 
and jewellery to his children. " The best coat my lord prince hath," 
continued lady Bryan, "is tinsel, and that he shall have to wear at 
that time, with never a good jewel to set on his cap ; but I shall order 
all things the best I can for my lord's honour, so as I trust the king's 
grace shall be contented withal ; and also master vice-chamberlain, and 
master cofferer, I am sure will do the best diligence that lieth in them 
in all causes." She communicates in conclusion this pleasing intelli- 
gence of the progress of the infant heir of England — " My lord prince 
is in good health, and now his grace hath four teeth, three full cut 
and the fourth appeareth." — Lives of the Bachelor Kings of England. 
Edward the Sixth. Chap. ii. 



200.— THE NOWROOSE, OR THE NEW YEAR IN PERSIA, 

[Sir R. Ker Porter, 1780 — 1842. 

[Robert Ker Porter, brother of Anna Maria and Jane Porter, the well-known 
writers of fiction, born at Durham in 1780, at an early age showed a great taste for 
art. West was so much pleased with his sketches that he obtained admission for 
him into the Academy, and his battle pieces formed special subjects of admiration. 
In 1804 he went to Russia, and was appointed historical painter to the Czar. On 
his return to England he published "Travelling Sketches in Russia and Sweden, 
during the years 1805-8," which appeared in i8og. He accompanied Sir John 
Moore's expedition to Portugal, and paid a second visit to Russia in 1813, in which 
year his "Narrative of the Campaign in Russia in 1812" appeared. Having tra- 
velled in Asia, he published "Travels in Georgia, Persia, Armenia, Ancient Baby- 
lonia, &c., during the years 1817-20," in 1821-2. William IV. made him a knight 
commander of tlie order of Hanover in J 832. He was ajjpointed consul at Vene- 
zuela, and resided at Caracas till 1841, when he paid a last visit to St. Petersburgh, 
where he died, May 4, 1842.] 

The 2 1st of March, the impatiently anticipated day of the most 
joyous festival of Persia, at last arrived. It is called the feast of the 
Nowroose, or that of the commencement of the new year j and its 
institution is attributed to the celebrated Jemsheed, who, according to 
the traditions of the country, and the fragments yet preserved of its 
early native historians, was the sixth in descent from Noah, and the 
fourth sovereign of Persia, of the race of Kaiomurs, the grandson of 



Porter.] OF MODERN LITERJTURE. 471 

Noah. To Jemsbeed the Persians ascribe their best laws, the origin 
of their asefal arts, and the establishment of their ciiief cities. In 
short, they giv^e him a reign of seven hundred years. During which 
period he plants vineyards, and becomes the inventor of wine ; he 
divides his people into classes 5 he institutes holy festivals ; and be- 
comes so prosperous in all his deeds, that he forgets he owes his good 
fortune to any superior being than himself 3 and arrogating the powers 
of a God, he commands his people to worship him. In consequence 
of this impiety. Divine vengeance pursues him ; he is driven from his 
throne ; and at last dies at the feet of a ruthless conqueror. All this 
is a great confusion of real events, falsely attributed to one man j but 
which we tind recorded in the sacred and profane histories of the 
countries which once formed the great Persian empire, not of one 
prince, but of a variety of persons, from Noah until Alexander. This 
preposterous mistake may, however, be easily accounted for, when we 
recollect the exaggerating genius of the people ; and that all their 
present records of those times arise from tradition, and a few scat- 
tered remnants of former annals, compiled into heroic verse by the 
imagination of a poet, who lived four hundred years after the archives 
had been destroyed by the jealousy of the Mahomedan conquerors of 
Persia ; and, consequently, the present narrators may be excused, for 
the errors of bewildered memories, the difficulty of reconciling frag- 
ments, and the creations with which enthusiastic fancy attempted to 
supply the defects. But to return to the feast of the Nowroose. It is 
acknowledged to have been celebrated from the earliest ages, in Persia, 
independent of whatever religions reigned there 5 whether the simple 
worship of the One Great Being, or under the successive rites of 
Magian, Pagan, or Mahomedan institutions. But the account given 
of its origin is this : — Jemsheed, after dividing time into two kinds of 
years, civil and religious, and introducing an intercalary month to keep 
the calendar in due order with the seasons, established the festival in 
question to commemorate the act, and to take place on the first day 
of the new solar year ; which, according to his arrangement, was to 
commence at the time of the natural reproduction of all things that 
conduce to the subsistence of man. The calculation of the year, com- 
monly in use at present in Persia, is by the moon 3 which makes it 
some days shorter than our year of Europe. Each month begins and 
ends with the moon, by whose changes the religious fasts and festivals 
of their prophet are regulated. But the solar year, which was the 
division by Jemsheed, begins the moment the sun enters Aries, (from 
which time is dated the lirst day of the spring also,) and consists of 
twelve months, of twenty-nine and thirty days each. It is at the com 
mencement of this solar year that the Nowroose is celebrated, Jem- 



472 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Porter. 

sheed fixed upon his capital, as the place of solemnity j and that, 
probably, was the city of Balk ; it having been the residence of his 
ancestor, Kaiomurs ; and afterwards long known as the metropolis of 
the early Persian monarchs. The feast was to continue six days. On the 
first, and in the whole assembly of his people, the king bestowed marks 
of his favour on the humblest class of his subjects, addressing the 
throng in these terms : 

^^This is a new day, of a new month, of a new year ! I have thus 
arranged the time, and call you together, that we may be the better 
enabled to follow nature in her progress. Also, to cement those ties 
closer which have hitherto united us ; and, like the inseparable succes- 
sion of the seasons, to enjoy in our hearts those blessings which unity 
ensures." 

On the secoiid day of the festival, he rewarded his counsellors and 
ministers -, on the third, he dealt out similar benefits to the learned 
and skilful ; the fourth was appropriated to the reception of his royal 
relations, and the general mass of nobility ; whilst the two remaining 
days were dedicated to universal rejoicing, feasting, and shows. Thus 
far, the accounts of the poet Ferdoussi, and the few scattered fragments 
of history, from which he drew his tale. But in the festival itself, 
which is on all sides acknowledged to be of so ancient a celebration, 
that tradition must go back to the patriarchal ages for its institution ; 
and from its being found near the very spot whence the descent from 
the ark was made ; I must own that I see sufficient evidence to admit 
the probability that it even originated with, or rather was re- appointed 
by, the venerable antediluvian Patriarch himself. In this light, it may 
be an interesting subject to all mankind ; as a memorial of the crea- 
tion of the world in six days, of the first spring to man, of the general 
equality of his race ; excepting the filial homage, due to its paternal 
head ; who, before the flood, might at the great anniversary of the 
world's birth, have thus called the fathers of the families of the earth 
together, to remind them whence they sprung. In such a case, there 
can be no doubt that Noah would receive the sacred ordinance, in a 
direct line from Adam. And after his descent from the ark, which 
took place at the same vernal season of the year 5 when the world 
seemed created afresh, from the destruction of the deluge; and man- 
kind were to spring again, as well as the earth; it does not appear 
unlikely, that in re-establishing the ancient usage, he would cause it 
to be considered in a double view, that of commemorating two such 
similar events, as the creation of the world, and its restoration. In- 
deed, some writers call the Nowroose the feast of the waters ; which 
briars well upon the idea of its having been a memorial of the Deluge. 
Similar traces, of commemorating the same event : some signal 



Buckle.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 473 

calamity having befallen the world, and its as extraordinary recovery 
to newness of life 3 may be very generally found, in the customs of all 
nations. In pagan countries^ the Saturnalia was one instance, out of 
many, which evidently pointed to this circumstance 5 the birth of the 
world, and the equality of mankind, in the golden age. And, at 
almost the same period of the year, we find the feast of the Passover 
amongst the Jews ; which commemorates to them, a mighty deliverance 
of that people, from a state of civil death in Egypt, to a happy 
existence, in the possession of Canaan. And we have Easter in the Chris- 
tian world, as an everlasting remembrance of the awful event at Cal- 
vary, and the consequent regeneration of all mankind. Hence, as all 
these several great festivals, of every age, and every people, were cele- 
brated at the same season of the year ; and all evidencing, by record 
or implication, some grand renewal of benefits to man, I cannot but 
consider the precedent of them all, as having primarily descended 
from Adam to Noah ; and thence dispersed abroad by use, and tradi- 
tion, throughout every nation of the earth ; to be followed, by the 
succession of blessings before enumerated. — Travels in Georgia, Persia, 
Armenia, Ancient Balylonia, <&c. <hc., during the years 1817-20. 
Vol. I., pp. 3T6-9. 



201.— CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND. 

[Buckle, 1823 — 1862. 

[Henry Thomas Buckle, born at Lee, Kent, November 24, 1823, was educated at a 
private school near London. The first volume of his unfinished work, the " History 
of Civilization/' appeared in 1857, and the second in 1861. He delivered a lecture, 
*' On the Influence of Women," at the Royal Institution, in 1858. This lecture 
and an " Essay on Liberty " were published in " Eraser's Magazine." Mr. Buckle 
died rather suddenly. May 29, 1862.] 

I HAVE long since abandoned my original scheme ; and I have reluc- 
tantly determined to write the history, not of general civilization, but 
of the civilization of a single people. While, however, by this means, 
we curtail the field of inquiry, we unfortunately diminish the 
resources of which the inquiry is possessed. For although it is 
perfectly true, that the totality of human actions, if considered in long 
periods, depends on the totality of human knowledge, it must be 
allowed that this great principle, when applied only to one country, 
loses something of its original value. The more we diminish our 
observations, the greater becomes the uncertainty of the average ; in 
other words, the greater the chance of the operation of the larger 
laws being troubled by the operation of the smaller. The interference 
of foreign governments j the influence exercised by the opinions. 



474 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Buckle. 



literature, and customs of a foreign people ; their invasions, perhaps 
even their conquests j the forcible introduction by them of new 
religions, new laws, and new manners, — all these things are perturba- 
tions, which, in a view of universal history, equalize each other, but 
which, in any one country, are apt to disturb the natural march, and 
thus render the movements of civilization more difficult to calculate. 
The manner in which I have endeavoured to meet this difficulty will 
be presently stated 3 but what I first wish to point out, are the reasons 
which have induced me to select the history of England as more 
important than any other, and therefore as the most worthy of being 
subjected to a complete and philosophic investigation. 

Now, it is evident that, inasmuch as the great advantage of studying 
past events consists in the possibility of ascertaining the laws by which 
they were governed, the history of any people will become more 
valuable in proportion as their movements have been least disturbed by 
agencies not arising from themselves. Every foreign or external 
influence which is brought to bear upon a nation is an interference 
with its natural development, and therefore complicates the circum- 
stances we seek to investigate. To simplify complications is, in all 
branches of knowledge, the first essential of success. This is very 
familiar to the cultivators of physical science, who are often able, by a 
single experiment, to discover a truth which innumerable observations 
had vainly searched ; the reason being, that by experimenting on 
phenomena, we can disentangle them from their complications ; and 
thus isolating them from the interference of unknown agencies, we 
leave them, as it were, to run their own course, and disclose the 
operation of their own law. 

This, then, is the true standard by which we must measure the value 
of the history of any nation. The importance of the history of a 
country depends, not upon the splendour of its exploits, but upon the 
degree to which its actions are due to causes springing out of itself. 
If, therefore, we could find some civilized people who had worked out 
their civilization entirely by themselves ; who had escaped all foreign 
influence, and who had been neither benefited nor retarded by the 
personal peculiarities of their rulers, — the history of such a people 
would be of paramount importance j because it would present a 
condition of normal and inherent development 5 it would shew the 
laws of progress acting in a state of isolation ; it would be, in fact, an 
experiment ready made, and would possess all the value of that 
artificial contrivance to which natural science is so much indebted. To 
find such a people as this is obviously impossible j but the duty of the 
l)hil()sophic historian is, to select for his especial study the country in 
which the conditions have been most closely followed. Now, it will 



Jonson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 475 

be readily admitted, not onlj by ourselves^ but hj intelligent foreigners, 
that in England, during, at ail events, the last three centuries, this 
has been done more constantly and more successhilly than in anj other 
country. I say nothing of the number of our discoveries, the brilliancy 
of our literature, or the success of our arms. These are invidious 
topics : and other nations may perhaps deny to us those superior 
merits which we are apt to exaggerate. But I take up this single 
position, that of all European countries, England is the one where, 
during the longest period, the government has been most quiescent, 
and the people most active ; where popular freedom has been settled on 
the widest basis; where each man is most able to say what he thinks, 
and do what he likes : where ever}^ one can follow his own bent, and 
propagate his own opinions ; where, religious persecution being little 
known, the play and flow of the human mind may be clearly seen, 
unchecked by those restraints to which it is elsewhere subjected ; 
where the profession of heresy is least dangerous, and the practice of 
dissent more common 3 where hostile creeds floarish side by side, and 
rise and decay without disturbance, according to the wants of the 
people, unaffected by the wishes of the church, and uncontrolled by 
the authority of the state ; where all interests, and all classes, both 
spirimal and temporal, are most lett to take care of themselves ; where 
tiiat meddlesome doctrine called Protection was tirst attacked, and 
\yhere alone it has been destroyed ; and where, in a word, those 
dangerous extremes to which interference gives rise having been 
avoided, despotism and rebellion are equally rare, and concession being 
recognised as the ground-work of policy, the national progress has 
been least disturbed by the power of privileged classes, by the influence 
of particular sects, or by the violence of arbitrary rulers. — History of 
CivUixation in England, General Introduction, Chap. v. 



20:.— TRUE VALOUR, 

[Bex JoN'soy, 1574 — 16,^7. 
[Benjamin, or as he usually wrote his name Ben Jonson, was bom in "Westminster 
early in 1574. He was a posthumous child, and his mother contracted a second 
marriase with a bricklayer. Having received some education at a pri\-ate school, he 
\vas sent to Westminster, and afterwards to Cambridge. He went into busines:> 
with his facher-in-law, but having no inclination for that calling, joined the army in 
the Low Countries as a volunteer. On his return he became an actor, and having 
killed an antagonist in a duel, was thrown into prison, where he was converted by a 
Popish priest. On obtaining his release he took a wife, and to his profession of 
actor joined that of a writer for the stage. The first piece of which aay record 
remains, was "Ever}- Man in his Humour," produced at the Rose in 1596. Shake- 
speare played in this comedy when it vras performed at the Black Friars in 1598. 



476 



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[Jonson 



This was followed by a number of dramas, as well as masques and entertainments. 
"The Alchemist" was produced in i6jo, and "The New Inn; or, the Light Heart,' 
in 1631. Ben Jonson died August 6, 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
A common stone, with the " O rare Ben Jonson 1" covered his grave. Heirick* wrote 

" Here lies Jonson with the rest 
Of the poets ; but the best. 
Reader wouldst thou more have known ? 
Ask his story, not this stone; 
That will speak what this can't tell. 
Of his glory. So farewell 1"] 

Scene : A Room in the Inn. 

LovEL. Good colonel Glorious, whilst we treat of valour. 
Dismiss yourself. 

Lord Latimer. You are not concerned. 

LovEL. Go drink. 
And congregate the hostlers and the tapsters. 
The under-officers of your regiment 5 
Compose with them, and be not angry valiant. [Exit Tipto. 

Lord Beaufort. How does that differ from true valour ? 

LovEL. Thus. 
In the efficient, or that which makes it : 
For it proceeds from passion, not from judgment : 
Then brute beasts have it, wicked persons j there 
Tt differs in the subject ; in the form, 
'Tis carried rashly, and with violence : 
Then in the end, where it respects not truth. 
Or public honesty, but mere revenge. 
Now confident, and undertaking valour. 
Sways from the true, two other ways, as being 
A trust in our own faculties, skill, or strength. 
And not the right, or conscience of the cause, 
That works it : then in the end, which is the victory. 
And not the honour. 

Lord Beaufort. But the ignorant valour. 
That knows not why it undertakes, but doth it 
To escape the infamy merely 

LovEL. Is worst of all : 
That valour lies in the eyes o' the lookers on 3 
And is called valour with a witness. 

Lord Beaufort. Right. 



* Rev. Robert Herrick, author of " Hesperides," &c., born in 1591, died October 10, 
1674. 



Jonson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 477 

LovEL. The things true valour's exercised about. 
Are povert)'', restraint, captivity. 
Banishment, loss of children, long disease : 
The least is death. Here valour is beheld. 
Properly seen ; about these it is present : 
Not trivial things, which but require our confidence. 
And yet to those we must object ourselves. 
Only for honesty 3 if any other 
Respects be mixt, we quite put out her light. 
And as all knowledge, when it is removed. 
Or separate from justice, is called craft. 
Rather than wisdom ; so a mind affecting. 
Or undertaking dangers, for ambition. 
Or any self-pretext not for the public. 
Deserves the name of daring, not of valour. 
And over-daring is as great a vice. 
As over-fearing. 

Lord Latimer. Yes, and often greater. 

LovEL. But as it is not the mere punishment. 
But cause that makes a martyr, so it is not 
Fighting or dying, but the manner of it. 
Renders a man himself. A valiant man 
Ought not to undergo, or tempt a danger. 
But worthily, and by selected ways : 
He undertakes witli reason, not by chance. 
His valour is the salt to his other virtues. 
They are all unseasoned without it. The waiting-maids. 
Or the concomitants of it, are his patience. 
His magnanimity, his confidence. 
His constancy, security, and quiet 3 
He can assure himself against all rumour. 
Despairs of nothing, laughs at contumelies. 
As knowing himself advanced in a height 
Where injury cannot reach him, nor aspersion 
Touch him with soil ! 

Lady Frampul. ]Most manly uttered all ! 
As if Achilles had the chair in valour. 
And Hercules were but a lecturer. 
Who would not hang upon tliose lips for ever. 
That strike such music ! 

The yew Inn ; or, the Light Heart. Act iv., Scene 3. 



478 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Bp. Warburton. 



203.— FANATICISM. 

[Bishop Warburton, 1698 — 1779. 
[William Warburton, the son of a lavvyer, born at Newark, Dec. 24, 1698, was 
educated at the Grammar School, Oakham, and was articled to an attorney, April 
23, 1714. Having studied theology, he prepared himself for the Church, and 
was ordained deacon Dec. 22, 1723, and priest March i, 1727. He was ap- 
pointed chaplain to the Prince of Wales in 1738, preacher at Lincoln's-inn in 
1746, prebend of Durham in 1754, dean of Bristol in 1757, and bishop of 
Gloucester Dec 22, 1759. He died at Gloucester June 7, 1779. His first 
publication, " Miscellaneous Translations, in Prose and Verse, from Roman Poets, 
Orators, and Historians," appeared in 1723; "The Alliance between Church 
and State," in 1736; and the work by which he is best known, "The Divine 
Legation of Moses," in 1737-8. The latter gave rise to considerable controversy. 
In 1740 he published a "Vindication of Pope's Essay on Man,* in Six Letters, to 
M. de Crousaz;"t and Pope having expressed a wish for a visit, he met the poet 
May 6, in that year, and spent several days at his villa at Twickenham. They 
became great friends, and at his death. May 30, 1744, Pope left Warburton the pro* 
perty of all his printed works. " The Principles of Natural and Revealed Religion, 
occasionally opened and explained; in a Course of Sermons Preached before the 
Honourable Society of Lincoln's-inn," appeared in 1753-4. Warburton, who edited 
an edition of Shakespeare, lived on terms of intimacy with some of the most cele- 
brated divines and authors of his time. A collected edition of his works by 
Bishop Hurd, appeared in 1788. His life, by the Rev. J. S. Watson, was published 
in 1863.] 

It is commonly indeed supposed, that the more wild and extravagant 
a fanatic temper is, the more clear it must needs be of all fraud and 
artifice : But both reason and experience are ready to show us our 
mistake. 

Fanaticism is a fire, which heats the mind indeed, but heats without 
purifying. It stimulates and ferments all the passions ; but it rectifies 
none of them : and thus leaving the appetites unsubdued ; pride, 
vanity, and ambition, insinuate themselves into the impotent and dis- 
ordered mind, under the disguise of purity, holiness, and perfection. 
And while they are at work. Religion, which lent them these more 
honest appellations, will be so far from curbing the owner in the use of 
oblique means, that the strongest influence of fanaticism will be 
naturally directed to push him upon them, as the best instruments for 
the ready introduction of what he calls the truth. 

Nor does the Physical state of the Enthusiast's mind give any 



* See page 14. 
f M. de Crousaz (born April 13, 1663, and died March 22, 175:0), Professor of 
Philosophy at Lausanne, in his " Examen de I'Essai sur I'Homme de Mr. Pope," pub- 
lished in 1737, and his " Commentaire sur la Traduction en vers de M. I'Abbe' Du 
Resnel de I'Essai de Mr. Pope sur THomme," in 1738, accused the poet of being a 
Ji'atalist, and the disciple of Spinoza. 



Bp. Warburton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 479 

Stronger check to fraudulent practice than the Moral. For when 
this passion or affection hath taken possession of a great genius, who, 
if he chance to have a hvely imagination, is as subject to its control 
as the meanest, the violence of his fervours makes him impatient of 
stop or defeat, in what he takes to be the cause of God; and conse- 
quently, to cast about for any kind of means to remove or repair it : 
readily persuading himself, that any means are lawful : And his 
superior genius will enable him to find them 3 and when found to im- 
prove them to their utmost use, by all the arts of fraudulent address. 
Hence, if we examine the history of mankind, we shall see, that the 
Founders of empires and false religions, which these Artists contrived 
should support one another, were frank Enthusiasts : But, at the same 
time, sufficient masters of themselv^es, to turn, with proper address, 
that spirit which they had catched and communicated, to the advance- 
ment of their proper schemes. And it is observable, that wherever 
one of these personated actors was not perfect in both his parts, he 
was soon hissed off the stage. The reason is evident : it arises from 
the nature of things. Without Enthusiasm, the adventurer could 
never kindle that fire in his followers which is so necessary to consoli- 
date their mutual interests : for no one can heartily deceive numbers, 
who is not first of all deceived himself j or, in other words, seen to be 
in earnest. But then, on the contrary, when the spirit of fanaticism 
is sufficiently spread and inflamed, it can never produce any great or 
notable issue, unless the raiser and director of the machine be so far 
master of himself as to be able to turn the point of this powerful in- 
strument to the objects of his project, and keep it constantly directed 
to their advancement. 

Indeed (as hath been observed above) the successful Directors of 
this Drama have generally exhibited more of art in their latter scenes, 
and more of enthusiasm in the former. The reason of which too is 
not less evident. Fanaticism is a kind of ebullition or critical ferment 
of the infected mind : which a vigorous nature can work through, and 
by slow degrees be able to cast off. Hence, history informs us of 
several successful Impostors who set out in all the blaze of fanaticism, 
and ended their career in all the depth and stillness of Politics. A 
prodigy in our nature ; but not the rarest 5 and exhibited with 
superior splendour by the famous Ignatius Loiola.* This illustrious 
person, who verified the observation of one that almost equalled him 
in his trade, " that a man never rises so high as when he does not 
know whither he is going," began his extasies in the mirej and yet 



* Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuits, born in 1491, died July 31, 1556. 



48o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Mill. 

ended with the direction and execution of Councils, that even in his 
own life-time began to give the law to Christendom. 

Amidst all these distractions of human reason and obliquities of 
'worldly politics, we see a spiritual Empire suddenly arise ; we mark its 
progress ; we trace its extent 3 we examine its establishment ; and 
comparing all its parts with their reference to a whole, we find it in 
effect to have, what was fancied of old Rome, every essential cha- 
racter of eternity. Yet was this surprising Revolution brought about 
by means entirely different from those by which all the great changes 
and establishments amongst mankind have been introduced, I. mean 
Fraud and Fanaticism. What, then, are we to conclude, but that 
the Religion of Jesus is as divine in its origin as it is pure and perfect 
in its essence : and that its Author was as free from all the visions and 
obliquities of enthusiasm as he was replete with all the wisdom and 
virtue of Heaven ? — The Principles of Natural and Revealed Religion, 
occasionally opened and explained; in a Course of Sermons preached 
hefore the Honourable Society of Lincoln s-inn. Sermon VI. Matt. x. 6. 
The Character and Conduct of the Messengers of the Gospel. 



204.— UTILITARIANISM. 

[Mill, 1806. 

[John Stuart Mill, son of James Mill, author of "Tlie History of British India," 
published in 18 18, born in 1806, and educated privately, obtained a clerkship in 
the East India House, succeeded his father as examiner of Indian correspondence in 
the India House in 1856, and retired from the public service in 1858. At the general 
election in July, 1865, he was returned one of the members for Westminster. He has 
contributed to the Edinburgh and JVestminster Reviews, and is the author of several 
works, the best known being, "System of Logic," published in 1843 ; " Essays on 
Unsettled Questions of Political Economy," in 1844; "Principles of Political Eco- 
nomy," in 1848; "Utilitarianism," in 1862; "Auguste Comte and Positivism," 
and " Examination of Sir William Hamilton's Philosophy," in 1865,] 

But does the utilitarian doctrine deny that people desire virtue, or 
maintain that virtue is not a thing to be desired? The very reverse. It 
maintains not only that virtue is to be desired, but that it is to be desired 
disinterestedly, for itself. Whatever may be the opinion of utilitarian 
moralists as to the original conditions by which virtue is made virtue ; 
however they may believe (as they do) that actions and dispositions are 
only virtuous because they promote another end than virtue ; yet this 
being granted, and it having been decided, from considerations of this 
description, what is virtuous, they not only place virtue at the very head 
of the things which are good as means to the ultimate end, but they also 
recognise as a psychological fact the possibility of its being, to the 



Mill.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 481 

individual, a good in itself, without looking to any end beyond it ; and 
hold, that the mind is not in a right state, not in a state conformable 
to Utility, not in the state most conducive to the general happiness, 
unless it does love virtue in this manner — as a thing desirable in itself, 
even although, in the individual instance, it should not produce those 
other desirable consequences which it tends to produce, and on account 
of which it is held to be virtue. This opinion is not, in the smallest 
degree, a departure from the Happiness principle. The ingredients of 
happiness are very various, and each of them is desirable in itself, and 
not merely when considered as swelling an aggregate. The principle 
of utility does not mean that any given pleasure, as music, for instance, 
or any given exemption from pain, as for example health, are to be 
looked upon as means to a collective something termed happiness, and 
to be desired on that account. They are desired and desirable in and 
for themselves 5 besides being means, they are a part of the end. 
Virtue, according to the utilitarian doctrine, is not naturally and 
originally part of the end, but it is capable of becoming so 3 and in 
those who love it disinterestedly it has become so, and is desired and 
cherished, not as a means to happiness, but as a part of their happiness. 
To illustrate this farther, we may remember that virtue is not the only 
thing, originally a means, and which if it were not a means to anything 
else, would be and remain indifferent, but which by association with what 
it is a means to, comes to be desired for itself, and that too with the utmost 
intensity. What, for example, shall we say of the love of money ? There 
is nothing originally more desirable about money than about any heap of 
glittering pebbles. Its worth is solely that of the things which it will 
buy 3 the desires for other things than itself, which it is a means of 
gratifying. Yet the love of money is not only one of the strongest 
moving forces of human life, but money is, in many cases, desired in 
and for itself 3 the desire to possess it is often stronger than the desire 
to use it, and goes on increasing when all the desires which point to ends 
beyond it, to be compassed by it, are falling off. It may be then said 
truly, that money is desired not for the sake of an end, but as part of 
the end. From being a means to happiness, it has come to be itself a 
principal ingredient of the individual's conception of happiness. The 
same may be said of the majority of the great objects of human life-^' 
power, for example, or fame 3 except that to each of these there is a 
certain amount of immediate pleasure annexed, which has at least 
the semblance of being naturally inherent in them 3 a thing which 
cannot be said of money. Still, however, the strongest natural at^- 
traction, both of power and of fame, is the immense aid they give to 
the attainment of our other wishes 3 and it is the strong association 
thus generated between them and all our objects of desire, which 

X I 



482 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Marryat. 



gives to the direct desire of them the intensity it often assumes, so as in 
some characters to surpass in strength all other desires. In these 
cases the means have become a part of the end, and a more important 
part of it than any of the things which tliey are means to. What 
was once desired as an instrument for the attainment of happiness, 
has come to be desired for its own sake. In being desired for its own 
sake it is, however, desired as part of happiness. The person is made, 
or thinks he would be made, happy by its mere possession j and is 
made unhappy by failure to obtain it. The desire of it is not a 
different thing from the desire of happiness, any more than the love 
of music, or the desire of health. They are included in happiness. 
They are some of the elements of which tlie desire of happiness is 
made up. Happiness is not an abstract idea, but a concrete whole j 
and these are some of its parts. And the utilitarian standard sanctions 
and approves their being so. Life would be a poor thing, very ill 
provided with sources of happiness, if there were not this provision 
of nature, by which things originally indifferent, but conducive to, or 
otherwise associated with, the satisfaction of our primitive desires, 
become in themselves sources of pleasure more valuable than the 
primitive pleasures, both in permanency, in the space of human ex- 
istence that they are capable of covering, and even in intensity. — 
UtUitariayiism. Chap. iv. Of what Sort of Proof the Principle of 
Utilitarianism is Susceptible. 



205.— THE TRIANGULAR DUEL. 

[Capt. Marryat, 1792 — 1848. 
[Frederick Marryat, son of a West India merchant, born in London, July to, 
1792, entered the navy on leaving school, became lieutenant in 1812, commander 
in 1815, and was made a C.B. in 1825. His first work of fiction, "Frank Mild- 
may," appeared in 1829. It was followed by the "King's Own," in 1830 ; 
"Newton Foster," in 1832; "Peter Simple," in 1833; "Jacob Faithful," and 
" Pacha of Many Tales," in 1835 > " J'^P^^^t in Search of a Father," and " Mr. Mid- 
shipman Easy," in 1836; "Snarley Yowjor, the Dog Fiend," in 1837; "Poor 
Jack," in 1840; " Masterman Ready; or, the Wreck of the Pacific," in 1841; and 
other works. He invented a code ot signals for the use of vessels employed in the 
merchant service, for which he received the public thanks of the Shipowners' 
.Society, and the Cross of the Legion of Honour from Louis-Philippe. He edited 
the "Metropolitan Magazine" from 1832 till 1836, and contributed to periodical 
literature. Captain Marryat died at Langham, inNorfolk, August 2, 1848.] 

Mr. Tallboys then addressed Mr. Gascoigne, taking him apart while 

the boatswain* amused himself with a glass of grog, and our herof sat 
outside teazin? a monkey. 



* Mr. Biggs. 



f Mr. Midshipman Easy. 



Marryat.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 483 

**Mr. Gascoigne/' said the gunner,* ''I have been very much puzzled 
how this duel should he fought, but I have at last found it out. You 
see that there are three parties to fight ;t had there been two or four 
there would have been no difficulty, as the right line or square might 
guide us in that instance 3 but we must arrange it upon the triangle 
in this." 

Gascoigne stared ; he could not imagine what was coming. 
" Are you aware, Mr. Gascoigne, of the properties of an equilateral 
triangle ?" 

"Yes," replied the midshipman, "that it has three equal sides — but 
what has tiiat to do with the duel?" 

"Everything, Mr. Gascoigne," replied the gunner 3 "it has resolved 
the great difficulty : indeed, the duel between three can only be fought 
upon that principle. You observe," said the gunner, taking a piece of 
chalk out of his pocket, and making a triangle on the table, " in this 
figure we have three points, each equidistant from each other ; and 
we have three combatants — so that, placing one at each point, it is all 
fair play for the three : Mr. Easy, for instance, stands here, the boat- 
swain here, and the purser's steward at the third corner. Now, if the 
distance is fairly measured, it will be all right." 

"But then," replied Gascoigne, delighted at the idea, "how are 
thev to fire ?" 

" It certainly is not of much consequence," replied the gunner, 
" but still, as sailors, it appears to me that they should fire with 
the sun ; that is, Mr. Easy fires at Mr. Biggs, Mr. Biggs fires at 
Mr. Easthupp, and Mr. Easthupp fires at Mr. Easy ; so that you 
perceive that each party has his shot at one, and at the same time 
receives the fire of another." 

Gascoigne was in ecstasies at the novelty of the proceeding, the 
more so as he perceived that Easy obtained every advantage by the 
arrangement. 

" Upon my word, Mr. Tallboys, I give you great credit ; you have 
a profound mathematical head, and I am delighted with your arrange- 
ment. Of course, in these affairs, the principals are bound to comply 
with the arrangements of the seconds, and I shall insist upon Mr. Easy 
consenting to your excellent and scientific proposal." 

Gascoigne went out, and pulling Jack away from the monkey, 
told him what the gunner had proposed, at which Jack laughed heartily. 



* Mr. Tallboys, 
t Mr. Midshipman Easy, who is supposed to have insulted the purser's steward, 
Mr, Easthupp, and the boatswain, Mr. Biggs, has consented to give, the satisfaction 
required. 

I I 2 



484 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Marryat. 

The gunner also explained it to the boatswain^ who did not very 
well comprehend, but replied — 

" I dare say it's all right — shot for shot, and d — n all favours." 

The parties then repaired to the spot with two pairs of ship's 
pistols, which Mr. Tallboys had smuggled on shore 3 and, as soon 
as they were on the ground, the gunner called Mr. Easthupp out 
of the cooperage. In the meantime, Gascoigne had been measuring 
an equilateral triangle of twelve paces — and marked it out. Mr. 
Tallboys, on his return with the purser's steward, went over the ground, 
and finding that it was " equal angles subtended by equal sides," de- 
clared that it was all right. Easy took his station, the boatswain was put 
into his, and Mr. Easthupp, who was quite in a mystery, was led by the 
gunner to the third position. 

'' But, Mr. Tallboys," said the purser's steward, " I don't understand 
this. Mr. Easy will first fight Mr. Biggs, will he not ?" 

'^^No," replied the gunner, " this is a duel of three. You will fire 
at Mr. Easy, Mr. Easy will fire at Mr. Biggs, and Mr. Biggs will fire 
at you. It is all arranged, Mr. Easthupp." 

''But," said Mr. Easthupp, " I do not understand it. Why is Mr. 
Biggs to fire at me ? I have no quarrel with Mr. Biggs." 

" Because Mr. Easy fires at Mr. Biggs, and Mr. Biggs must have his 
shot as well." 

" If you have ever been in the company of gentlemen, Mr. East- 
hupp," observed Gascoigne, " you must know something about 
duelling," 

" Yes, yes, I've kept the best company, Mr. Gascoigne, and I can 
give a gentleman satisfaction 3 but " 

'' Then, sir, if that is the case, you must know that your 
honour is in the hands of your second, and that no gentleman 
appeals." 

" Yes, yes, I know that, Mr. Gascoigne ; but still I've no quarrel 
with Mr. Biggs, and therefore, Mr. Biggs, of course you will not aim 
at me." 

'' Why you don't think that I am going to be fired at for nothing," 
replied the boatswain ; " no, no, I'll have my shot anyhow." 

" But at your friend, Mr. Biggs ?" 

" All the same, I shall fire at somebody j shot for shot, and hit the 
luckiest." 

" Vel, gentlemen, I purtest against these proceedings," replied Mr. 
Easthuppj ''I came here to have satisfaction from Mr. Easy, and not 
to be fired at by Mr. Biggs." 

" Don't you have satisfaction when you fire at Mr. Easy," replied 
the gunner; *^ what more would you have?" 



Lord Macaulay.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 485 

" I purtest against Mr. Biggs firing at me." 

" So you would have a shot without receiving one," cried Gascoigne : 
" the fact is, that this fellow's a confounded coward, and ought to be 
kicked into the cooperage again." 

At this affront Mr. Easthupp rallied, and accepted the pistol 
offered by the gunner. 

*^You ear those words, Mr. Biggs 5 pretty language to use to a 
gentleman. You shall ear from me, sir, as soon as the ship is paid 
off. I purtest no longer, Mr. Tallboys ; death before dishonour ; I'm 
a gentleman !" 

At all events, the swell was not a very courageous gentleman, for he 
trembled most exceedingly as he pointed his pistol. 

The gunner gave the word, as if he were exercising the great guns 
on board ship. 

" Cock your locks !" — ''''Take good aim at the object !" — " Fire !" 
— *^Stop your vents !" 

The only one of the combatants who appeared to comply with the 
latter supplementary order was Mr. Easthupp, who clapped his hand 
to his trousers behind, gave a loud yell, and then dropped down ; the 
bullet having passed clean through his seat of honour, from his having 
presented his broadside as a target to the boatswain as he faced towards 
our hero. Jack's shot had also taken effect, having passed through 
both the boatswain's cheeks, without further mischief than extracting 
two of his best upper double teeth, and forcing through the hole of 
the further cheek the boatswain's own quid of tobacco. As for Mr. 
Easthupp's ball, as he was very unsettled, and shut his eyes before he 
fired, it had gone the Lord knows where. 

The purser's steward lay on the ground and screamed — the boat- 
swain spit his double teeth and two or three mouthfuls of blood out, 
and then threw down his pistols in a rage. 

'*■ A pretty business," sputtered he; " he's put my pipe out. How 
am I to pipe to dinner when I'm ordered, all my wind 'scaping 
through the cheeks?" 

In the meantime, the others had gone to the assistance of the purser's 
steward, who continued his vociferations. They examined him, and 
considered a wound in that part not to be dangerous. — Mr. Midship- 
man Easy. Chap, xviii. 



206.— THE LONDON COFFEE HOUSES IN 1685. 

[Lord Macaulay, 1800 — 1859. 
[Thomas Babington Macaulay, born at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, October 
25, 1800, was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and obtained a fellowship in 



486 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lord Macaulay. 

1822. He gained the Chancellor's medal for a poem entitled "Pompeii" in 1819, 
was a contributor to Kjiight's Quarterly Magazine, and in August, 1825, his article 
on Milton appeared in the hdinburgh beview. Macaulay was called to the bar in 
February, 1826, was appointed a Commissioner in Bankruptcy, and was elected for 
Calne in 1830. He was returned for Leeds in December, 1832, but resigned his 
seat in 1834, having been nominated a member of the Supreme Council of Calcutta. 
The object of his appointment was to draw up a new Indian code of laws, which was 
published soon after his return in 1838. He was elected for Edinburgh in May, 
1839, became Secretaiy of War in the same year, and retired on the resignation of 
Lord Melbourne's Government in -1841. On the formation of the Russell Adminis- 
tration in 1846, he was appointed paymaster-general, with a seat in the Cabinet. 
Having been rejected by his Edinburgh constituents in August, 1847, ^^ withdrew 
from public life. His "Lays of Ancient Rome" appeared in October, 1842, and his 
contributions to the Fdinburgh Beview were republished in 1843. The first and 
second volumes of " The History of England from the Accession of James IL," the 
work by which he is best known, were published in 1848 ; and the third and fourth 
volumes in 1855. In 1852 he was re-elected for Edinburgh, but he retired in 1856, 
and was raised to the peerage, under the title of Baron Macaulay of Rothley, in 1857. 
He died atCampden Hill, London, December 28, 1859, ^^^ was buried in Westmin- 
ster Abbey. A Life, by the Rev. f . Arnold, appeared in 1862.] 

The coffee house must not be dismissed with a cursory mention. It 
might indeed at that time have been not improperly called a most im- 
portant political institution. No Parliament had sat for years. The 
municipal council of the City had ceased to speak the sense of the 
citizens. Public meetings, harangues, resolutions, and the rest of the 
modern machinery of agitation, had not yet come into fashion. Nothing 
resembling the modern newspaper existed. In such circumstances the 
coffee houses were the chief organs through which the public opinion 
of the metropolis vented itself. 

The first of these establishments had been set up, in the time of the 
Commonwealth, by a Turkey merchant, who had acquired among the 
Mahometans a taste for their favourite beverage. The convenience of 
being able to make appointments in any part of the town, and of being 
able to pass evenings socially at a very small charge, was so great that 
the fashion spread fast. Every man of the upper or middle class went 
daily to his coffee house to learn the news and to discuss it. Every 
coffee house had one or more orators to whose eloquence the crowd 
listened with admiration, and who soon became, what the journalists 
of our own time have been called, a fourth Estate of the realm. The 
court had lono- seen with uneasiness the growth of this new power in 
the state. An attempt had been made, during Danby's admmistra- 
tion, to close the coffee houses. But men of all parties missed their 
usual places of resort so much that there was an universal outcry. The 
Government did not venture, in opposition to a feeling so strong and 
general, to enforce a regulation of which the legality might well be 
questioned. Since that time ten years had elapsed, and during those 



tort Maeauhy.] OF MO DERN L ITERJTUR E, 48 7 

years the number and tnflQence of the coffee houses had been con- 
stantly increasing. Foreigners remarked that the coffee house was 
that which especially distinguished London from all other cities ; that 
the cofiee house was the Londoner's home, and that those who wished 
to find a gentleman commonly asked, not whether he lived in Fleet 
Street or Chancery Lane, but whether he frequented the Grecian or 
the Rainbow. Nobody was excluded from these places who laid 
down his penny at the bar. Yet every rank and profession, and ever}- 
shade of religious and political opinion, had its own head-quarters. 
There were houses near Saint James's Park where fops congregated, 
their heads and shoulders covered with black or flaxen wigs, not less 
ample than those which are now worn by the Chancellor and by the 
Speaker of the House of Commons. The wig came from Paris ; and 
so did the rest of the fine gentleman's ornaments, his embroidered 
coat, his fringed gloves, and the tassel which upheld his pantaloons. 
The conversation was in that dialect which, long after it had ceased 
to be spoken in fashionable circles, continued, in the mouth of Lord 
Foppington, to excite the mirth of theatres.* The atmosphere 
was Hke that of a perfumer's shop. Tobacco in any other form than 
that of richly scented snuff' was held in abomination. If any clown, 
ignorant of the usages of the house, called for a pipe, the sneers of the 
whole assembly and the short answers of the waiters soon convinced 
him that he had better go somewhere else. Nor, indeed, would he 
have had tar to go. For, in general, the coffee rooms reeked with 
tobacco like a guard room ; and strangers sometimes expressed their 
surprise that so many people should leave their own firesides to sit in 
the midst of eternal fog and stench. Nowhere was the smoking more 
constant than at Will's. That celebrated house, situated between 
Covent Garden and Bow Street, was sacred to poHte letters. There 
the talk was about poetical justice and the unities of place and time. 
There was a faction for Perrault and the modems, a faction for Boileau 
and the ancients. One group debated whether Paradise Lost ought 
not to have been in rhyme. To another an envious poetaster demon- 
strated that Venice Preserved, ought to have been hooted from the 
stage. Under no roof was a greater variety of figures to be seen. 
Earls in stars and garters, clergymen in cassocks and bands, pert 
Templars, sheepish lads from the L^niversities, translators and index- 



* The chief peculiarity of this dialect was that, in a large class of words, the O was 
pronounced like A. Thus stork was pronounced hke stark. See Vanbrugh's 
Rdopse. Lord Sunderland was a great master of this court tune, as Roger North 
alls it J and Titus Oates aifected it in the hope of passing for a fine geudeman. {Exa^ 
men, 77. 254.'^ 



488 THE EFERV-DJY BOOK [Parry. 

makers in ragged coats of frieze. The great press was to get near the 
chair where John Dryden sate. In winter that chair was always in 
the warmest nook by the fire ; in summer it stood in the balcony. 
To bow to him^ and to hear his opinion of Racine's last tragedy or of 
Bossu's treatise on epic poetry, was thought a privilege. A pinch from 
his snuff box was an honour sufficient to turn the head of a young en- 
thusiast. There were coffee houses where the first medical men 
might be consulted. Doctor John Radcliffe, who, in the year 1685, 
rose to the largest practice in London, came daily at the hour when 
the Exchange was full, from his house in Bow Street, then a fashion- 
able part of the capital, to Garraway's, and was to be found, sur- 
rounded by surgeons and apothecaries, at a particular table. There 
were Puritan coffee houses where no oath was heard, and where lank 
haired men discussed election and reprobation through their noses ; 
Jew coffee houses where dark eyed money changers from Venice and 
from Amsterdam greeted each other j and Popish coffee houses where, 
as good Protestants believed, Jesuits planned, over their cups, another 
great fire, and cast silver bullets to shoot the king.- — The History 0/ 
England from the Accession of James the Second. Vol. i. chap. iii. 



207.— AMONG THE ICE. 

[Sir W. E. Parry, 1790 — 1855. 

[William Edward Parry, born at Bath, Dec. 19, 1790, was intended for the 
medical profession, but entered the navy as a volunteer, and was made lieutenant 
Jan. 6, 1810. He was soon after sent to the Arctic regions to protect English whale 
fisheries, and served on the North American station from 1813 till 18 17. He took 
command in April, 18 18, of the Alexander in the expedition under Sir J. Ross, 
sent to discover a north-west passage, went out again in May, 18 19, was made a 
commander Nov. 4, 1820, became a member of the Royal Society, and was knighted 
in 1829. Having undertaken several voyages to the Arctic regions, in the course of 
which he made most important discoveries, he went as Commissioner to the 
Agricultural Company of Australia, April 4, 1827, returned to England in Novem- 
ber, 1834, and held various Government appointments till December, T846, when 
he retired. He was made Rear-Admiral of the White June 4, 1852, lieutenant- 
governor of Greenwich Hospital in 1853, and died at Ems, in Germany, July 7, 
1855. Sir W, E. Parry published in 1821 his "First Voyage. Journal of a 
Voyage, &c., in the /7ec/a and Griper, in 1819-20;" in 1824, "Second Voyage, 
in the F«r7/ and Hecia, in 1821-3;" in 1826, *' Third Voyage, in the Hecla and 
Fury, in 1824-5;" and in 1828, "Fourth Voyage: Narrative of an Attempt to 
reach the North Pole in Boats attached to the Hecla, in 1827." An abridged 
etion of his Voyages appeared in 1829, and a Life, by his son, the Rev. E. Parry, 
1857-] 
On standing out to sea (July 20, 1825), we sailed, with a light 
southerly wind, towards the western shore of Prince Regent's Inlet, 
which it was my first wish to gain, on account of the evident ad- 



I 



Parry.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 489 

vantage to be derived from coasting the southern part of that portion 
of land called in the chart " North Somerset/' as far as it might 
lead to the westward ; which, from our former knowledge, we had 
reason to suppose it would do as far at least as the longitude of 95°, 
in a parallel of about 72|°. After sailing about eight miles, we were 
stopped by a body of close ice lying between us and a space of open 
water beyond. By way of occupying the time in further examination 
of the state of the ice, we then bore up with a light northerly wind, and- 
ran to the soutli-eastward, to see if there was any clear water between the 
ice, and the land in that direction ; but found that there was no open- 
ing between them to the southward of the flat- topped hill laid down in 
the chart, and now called Mount Sherer. Indeed, I believe that, 
at this time, the ice had not yet detached itself from the land to the 
southward of that station. On standing back, we were shortly after 
enveloped in one of the thick fogs which had, for several weeks past, 
been obser\^ed almost daily hanging over some part of the sea in the 
offing, though we had scarcely experienced any in Port Bo wen, until 
the water became open at the mouth of the harbour. 

On the clearing up of the fog on the 21st, we could perceive no open- 
ing of the ice leading towards the western land, nor any appearance of 
the smallest channel to the southward along the eastern shore. I was 
determined, therefore, to try at once a little further to the northward, 
the present state of the ice appearing completely to accord with that 
observed in 18 19, its breadth increasing as we advance from Prince 
Leopold's Islands to the southward. As, therefore, I felt confident of 
being able to push along the shore if we could once gain it, I was 
anxious to effect the latter object in any part, rather than incur the 
risk of hampering the ships by a vain, or at least a doubtful attempt 
to force them through a body of close ice several miles wide, for the 
sake of a few leagues of southing, which would soon be regained by 
coasting. 

Light winds detained us very much, but being at length favoured 
by a breeze, we carried all sail to the north-west, the ice very gra- 
dually leading us towards the Leopold Isles. Having arrived off the 
northernmost, on the morning of the 22nd, it was vexatious, however 
curious, to observe the exact coincidence of tlie present position of the 
ice with that which it occupied a little later in the year 18 19. The 
whole body of it seemed to cling to the western shore, as if held there 
by some strong attraction, forbidding, for the present, any access to it. 
We now stood off and on, in the hope that a southerly breeze, which 
had just sprung up, might serve to open us a channel. In the evening 
the wind gradually freshened, and before midnight had increased to a 
strong gale, which blew with considerable violence for ten hours, 



490 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Parry. 



obliging us to haul oiF from the ice, and to keep in smooth water 
under the eastern land until it abated -, after which not a moment was 
lost in again standing over to the westward. After running all night, 
with light and variable winds, through loose and scattered ice, we sud- 
denly found ourselves, on the clearing up of a thick fog through which 
we had been sailing on the morning of the 24th, within one-third of a 
mile of Cape Seppings, the land just appearing above the fog in time 
to save us from danger, the soundings being thirty-eight fathoms, 
on a rocky bottom. The Fury being apprized by guns of our situa- 
tion, both ships were hauled off the land, and the fog soon after dis- 
persing, we had the satisfaction to perceive that the late gale had 
blown the ice off the land, leaving us a fine navigable channel from 
one to two miles wide, as far as we could see from the masthead 
along the shore. We were able to avail ourselves of this but slowly, 
however, in consequence of a light southerly breeze still blowing 
against us. 

We had now an opportunity of discovering that a long neck of very 
low land runs out from the southernmost of the Leopold Uands, and 
another from the shore to the south-ward of Cape Clarence. These 
two had every appearance of joining, so as to make a peninsula, in- 
stead of an island, of that portion of land which, on account of our 
distance preventing our seeing the low beach, had in 18 19 been con- 
sidered under the latter character. It is, however, still somewhat 
doubtful, and the Leopold Isles, therefore, still retain their original 
designation on the chart. The land here, when closely viewed, assumes 
a very striking and magnificent character, the strata of limestone, 
which are numerous, and quite horizontally disposed, being much 
more regular than on the eastern shore of Prince Regent's Inlet, and 
retaining nearly their whole perpendicular height, of six or seven hun- 
dred feet, close to the sea. The south-eastern promontory of the 
southernmost Island is particularly picturesque and beautiful, the heaps 
of loose debris lying here and there up and down the sides of the cliff 
giving it the appearance of some huge and impregnable fortress, with 
immense buttresses of masonry supporting the walls. Near Cape 
Seppings, and some distance beyond it to the southward, we noticed a 
narrow stratum of some very white substance, the nature of which we 
could not at this time conjecture. I may here remark that the whole of 
Barrow's Strait, as far as we could see to the N.N.E. of the islands, 
was entirely free from ice ; and, from whatever circumstance it may 
proceed, I do not think that this part of the Polar sea is at any season 
very much encumbered with it. — Journal of a Third Voyage for the Dis- 
covery of the North-West Passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific, 
performed in i2)2^-^. Chap. v. 



Miller.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 491 



208.— FOSSILS OF THE OLD RED SANDSTONE. 

[H. Miller, 1802— 1856. 

[Hugh Miller, born at Cromarty, Oct. 10, 1802, and educated at the grammar school 
of his native place, worked as a stone mason from 18 19 till 1836, devoting his spare 
time to study. His first work, " Poems written in the Leisure Hours of a Journey- 
man Stone Mason," appeared in 1829. It was followed by "Scenes and Legends of 
the North of Scotland," and in 1840 he became editor of the " Witness," an Edin- 
burgh newspaper, to which he contributed " The Old Red Sandstone," republished 
in 1841. He wrote " Geology of the Bass," published in 1848; "Footprints of 
the Creator," in 1851; and other works. Whilst engaged on the "Testimony 
of the Rocks," published after his death, he destroyed himself at Porto Bello, near 
Edinburgh, in the night of Dec. 23 — 4, 1856.] 

The different degrees of entireness in which the geologist finds his 
organic remains, depend much less on their age than on the nature of 
the rock in which they occur; and as the arenaceous matrices of the 
Upper and Middle Old Red Sandstones have been less favourable to 
the preservation of their peculiar fossils than the calcareous and 
aluminous matrices of the Lower, we frequently find the older 
organisms of the system fresh and unbroken, and the more modern 
existing as mere fragments. A fish thrown into a heap of salt would 
be found entire after the lapse of many years 5 a fish thrown into a 
heap of sand would disappear in a mass of putrefaction in a few weeks; 
and only the less destructible parts, such as the teeth, the harder bones, 
and perhaps a few of the scales, would survive. Now, limestone, if I 
may so speak, is the preserving salt of the geological world ; and the 
conservative qualities of the shales and stratified clays of the Lower 
Old Red Sandstone are not much inferior to those of lime itself; 
while, in the Upper Old Red, we have merely beds of consolidated 
sand, and these, in most instances, rendered less conservative of organic 
remains than even the common sand of our shores, by a mixture of 
the red oxide of iron. The older fossils, therefore, like the mummies 
of Egypt, can be described well nigh as minutely as the existences of 
the present creation ; the newer, like the comparatively modern re- 
mains of our churchyards, exist, except in a few rare cases, as mere 
fragments, and demand powers such as those of a Cuvier or an Agass'z, 
to restore them to their original combinations. 

But cases, though few and rare, do occur in which, through some 
favourable accident connected with the death or sepulture of some 
individual existence of the period, its remains have been preserved 
almost entire ; and one such specimen serves to throw light on whole 
heaps of the broken remains of its contemporaries. The single 
elephant, preserved in an iceberg beside the Arctic Ocean, illustrated 
the peculiarities of the numerous extinct family to which it belonged, 



492 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Miller. 

and whose bones and huge tusks whiten the wastes of Siberia. The 
human body found in an Irish bog, with the ancient sandals of the 
country still attached to its feet by thongs, and clothed in a garment 
of coarse hair, gave evidence that bore generally on the degree of 
civilization attained by the inhabitants of an entire district in a remote 
age. In all such instances the character and appearance of the in- 
dividual bear on those of the tribe. In attempting to describe the 
organisms of the Lower Old Red Sandstone, where the fossils lie as 
thickly in some localities as herrings on our coasts in the fishing season, 
I felt as if I had whole tribes before me. In describing the fossils of 
the Upper Old Red Sandstone I shall have to draw mostly from single 
specimens. But the evidence may be equally sound so far as it goes. 

The difference between the superior and inferior groupes of the system 
which first strikes an observer, is a difference in the size of the fossils of 
which these groupes are composed. The characteristic organisms of 
the Upper Old Red Sandstone are of much greater bulk than those of 
the Lower, which seem to have been characterized by a mediocrity of 
size throughout the entire extent of the formation. The largest 
ichthyolites of the group do not seem to have much exceeded two feet 
or two feet and a half in lengthy its smaller average from an inch to 
three inches. A jaw in the possession of Dr. Traill, — that of an 
Orkney species of Platygnathus, and by much the largest in his col- 
lection, — does not exceed in bulk the jaw of a full-grown coal-fish or 
cod ; his largest Coccosteus must have been a considerably smaller fish 
than an ordinary sized turbot ; the largest ichthyolite found by the 
writer was a Diplopterus, of, however, smaller dimensions than the 
ichthyolite to which the jaw in the possession of Dr. Traill must have 
belonged ; the remains of another Diplopterus from Gamrie, the most 
massy yet discovered in that locality, seem to have composed the upper 
parts of an individual about two feet and a half in length. The fish, 
in short, of the lower ocean of the Old Red Sandstone, — and I can 
speak of it throughout an area which comprises Orkney and Inverness. 
Cromarty and Gamrie, and which must have included about ten thou- 
sand square miles, — ranged in size between the stickleback and the 
cod ; whereas some of the fish of its upper ocean were covered by 
scales as large as oyster-shells, and armed with teeth that rivalled in 
bulk those of the crocodile. They must have been fish on an im- 
mensely larger scale than those with which the system began. There 
have been scales of the Holoptychius found in Clashbennie which 
measure three inches in length by two and a half in breadth, and a 
full eighth part of an inch in thickness. There occur occipital plates 
of fishes in the same formation in Moray, a full foot in length by half 
a foot in breadth. The fragment of a tooth still attached to a piece of 



Hemans.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 493 

the jaw, found in the sandstone difFs that overhang the Findhorn, 
measures an inch in diameter at the base. A second tooth of the same 
formation, of a still larger size, disinterred by Mr. Patrick Duff from 
out the conglomerates of the Scat-Craig, near Elgin, and now in his 
possession, measures two inches in length by rather more than an inch 
in diameter. There occasionally turn up in the sandstones of Perthshire 
ichthyodorulites that in bulk and appearance resemble the teeth of a 
harrow rounded at the edges by a few months' wear, and which 
must have been attached to fins not inferior in general bulk to the 
dorsal fin of an ordinary-sized porpoise. In short, the remains of a 
Patagonian burying-ground would scarcely contrast more strongly with 
the remains of that battle-field described by Addison, in which the 
pigmies were annihilated by the cranes, than the organisms of the 
upper formation of the Old Red Sandstone contrast with those of the 
lower. — The Old Red Sandstone; or, New Walks in an Old Field, 
Chap. ix. 



209.— THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

[Mrs. Hemans, 1793 — 1835. 

[Felicia Dorothea Browne was born at Liverpool, Sept. 25, 1793. Her first 
volume of poems, published in 1808, which contained verses written as early as 1803, 
was followed by " The Domestic Affections" in 181 2, in which year she became the 
wife of Captain Hemans. After the birth of their fifth son. Captain Hemans went 
to live in Italy and a separation ensued, Mrs. Hemans taking up her residence near 
St. Asaph in North Wales. She made translations from the Latin, Portuguese, and 
other modern languages, and published several works, the best known being " Tales 
and Historic Scenes," in 18 19; "Dartmoor," which obtained the prize from the 
Royal Society of Literature in 1821 ; a tragedy, "The Vespers of Palermo," repre- 
sented at Covent Garden Dec. 12, 1823; "The Forest Sanctuary," in 1826; 
"Records of Women," in 1828, and "The Songs of the Affections," in 1830. In 
183 1 Mrs. Hemans took up her residence in Dublin. Her health began to fail in 
Aug., 1834, and she died Saturday, May 16, 1835. ^^^ ^^^'t poem, "The Sabbath 
Sonnet," was dictated by her, Easter Sunday, April 26, 1835.] 

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? 

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! — 
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells. 

Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain ! — 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth untold. 
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies ! 



494 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Butler. 



Tliou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies ! — 
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — thy waves have rolled 

Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old. 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. — 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play ! 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! 

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar. 

The battle-thunders will not break their rest. — 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long ! 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom. 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down. 

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head. 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown 5 

Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead ! 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — 

Restore the dead, thou sea ! 

— Miscellaneous Pieces. 



210.— OF THE GOVERNMENT OF GOD BY REWARDS AND 
PUNISHMENTS. 

[Bp. Butler,* 1692 — 1752. 

[Joseph Butler, the son of a shop-keeper, was born at Wantage, in Berkshire, in 1692, 
and was educated at Oxford. In 1718, he was appointed preacher at the Rolls, and 
resigned the appointment to reside at his rectory at Stanhope, where he remained 



I 



* See page 448. 



Butler.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 495 



until 1733, when he became chaplain to Lord Chancellor Talbot. He was appointed 
clerk of the closet to Queen Caroline in 1736, Bishop of Bristol in 1738, was pre- 
sented to the deanery of St. Paul's in 1740, when he resigned the rectory of Stanhope, 
and was translated to Durham in 1750. He died at Bath, June 16, 1752, and was 
buried in Bristol Cathedral. His best known work, "The Analogy of Religion, 
Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature," was first pub- 
lished in 1736. "Fifteen Sermons Preached at the Rolls Chapel" appeared in 
1726. His collected works were published in two volumes in 1807.] 

That which makes the question concerning a future life to be of so 
great importance to us, is our capacity of happiness and misery. And 
that which makes the consideration of it to be of so great importance 
to us, is the supposition of our happiness and misery Hereafter, depend- 
ing upon our actions Here. Without this indeed, curiosity could not 
but sometimes bring a subject, in which we may be so highly interested, 
to our thoughts ; especially upon the mortality of others, or the near 
prospect of our own. But reasonable men would not take any further 
thought about Hereafter, than what should happen thus occasionally 
to rise in their minds, if it were certain that our future interest no way 
depended upon our present behaviour : whereas on the contrary, if 
there be ground, either from analogy or any thing else, to think it 
does ; then there is reason also for the most active thought and sohci- 
tude, to secure that interest 3 to behave so as that we may escape that 
misery, and obtain that happiness in another life, which we not only 
suppose ourselves capable of, but which we apprehend also is put in 
our own power. And whether there be ground for this last apprehen- 
sion, certainly would deserve to be most seriously considered, were 
there no other proof of a future life and interest, than that presumptive 
one, which the foregoing observations amount to. 

Now in the present state, all which we enjoy, and a great part of 
what we suffer, is put in our own power. For pleasure and pain are 
the consequences of our actions : and we are endued by the Author of 
our Nature with capacities of foreseeing these consequences. We find 
by experience He does not so much as preserve our lives, exclusively 
of our own care and attention, to provide ourselves with, and to make 
use of, that sustenance, by which he has appointed our lives shall be 
preserved ; and without wh-ch, he has appointed, they shall not be 
preserved at all. And in general we foresee, that the external things, 
which are the objects of our various passions, can neither be obtained 
nor enjoyed, without exerting ourselves in such and such manners : 
but by thus exerting ourselves, we obtain and enjoy these objects, in 
which our natural good consists ; or by this means God gives us the 
possession and enjoyment of them. I know not, that we have any 
one kind or degree of enjoyment, but by the means of our own actions. 
And by prudence and care, we may, for the most part, pass our days 



496 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Butler. 

in tolerable ease and quiet : or, on the contrary, we may, by rashness, 
ungoverned passion, wilfulness, or even by negligence, make ourselves 
as miserable as ever we please. And many do please to make them- 
selves extremely miserable, i.e. to do what they know beforehand will 
render them so. They follow those ways, the fruit of which they 
know, by instruction, example, experience, will be disgrace, and 
poverty, and sickness, and untimely death. This every one observes 
to be the general course of things ; though it is to be allowed, we can- 
not find by experience, that all our sufferings are owing to our own 
follies. 

Why the Author of Nature does not give his creatures promiscuously 
such and suchperceptions, without regard to their behaviour ; why he 
does not make them happy without the instrumentality of their own 
actions, and prevent their bringing any sufferings upon themselves ; is 
another matter. Perhaps there may be some impossibilities in the 
nature of things, which we are unacquainted with. Or less happiness, 
it may be, would upon the whole be produced by such a method of 
conduct, than is by the present. Or perhaps divine goodness, with 
which, if I mistake not, we make very free in our speculations, may 
not be a bare single disposition to produce happiness ^ but a disposition 
to make the good, the faithful, the honest man happy. Perhaps an 
infinitely perfect Mind may be pleased, with seeing his creatures behave 
suitably to the nature which he has given them ; to the relations which 
he has placed them in to each other j and to that, which they stand in to 
hifnself : that relation to himself, which, during their existence, is even 
necessary, and which is the most important one of all : perhaps, I say, 
an infinitely perfect Mind may be pleased with this moral piety of 
moral agents, in and for itself 3 as well as upon account of its being 
essentially conducive to the happiness of his creation. Or the whole 
end, for which God made, and thus governs the world, may be utterly 
beyond the reach of our faculties : there may be somewhat in it as im- 
possible for us to have any conception of, as for a blind man to have a 
conception of colours. But however this be, it is certain matter of 
universal experience, that the general method of divine administration 
is, forewarning us, or giving us capacities to foresee, with more or less 
clearness, that if we act so and so, we shall have such enjoyments, if 
so and so, such sufferings ; and giving us those enjoyments, and making 
us feel those sufferings, in consequence of our actions. — The Analogy of 
Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of 
Nature. Part I. ch. ii. 



Montaigne.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 497 



211.— OF THE AFFECTION OF PARENTS TO THEIR CHILDREN. 

[Montaigne, i533— i592- 
[Michel de Montaigne, born at the family estate, Montaigne, in Perigord, Feb. 
28, 1533, from his earliest childhood was taught to converse in Latin, and was 
sent to the college at Bordeaux in 1543. He was appointed a councillor of the 
Parliament of Bordeaux in 1554, applied himself to the study of Greek and Roman 
philosophy, and translated "Raymundus Lebondus," published at Paris in 1569. 
Montaigne, who lived in retirement at his family estate, published the first two 
books of his celebrated Essays in 1580, and the third, on his return from a long 
tour, in the course of which he visited Rome, in 1592. The best editions are by De 
Coste, published in 1727, and by Victor Leclerc, in 1826. An English trans- 
lation by Mr. John Florio appeared in 1603, another by Charles Cotton* 
in 1693, and another by William Hazlittf in 1842. Nearly two centuries 
after his death, which occurred Sep. 13, 1592, the MS. of his travels was found 
at Montaigne, and was published at Paris, in 1774, under the title "Journal de 
Voyage de M. Montaigne en Italic, par la Suisse et rAliemagne," A Life, by 
Grun, appeared at Paris in 1855, another, by Payen, at Paris in 1856, and one, by 
Bayle St. John, at London in 1857. Hallam says of him, "No prose writer of 
" the sixteenth century has been so generally read, nor probably, given so much 
" delight." And he concludes his notice thus : " Montaigne is the earliest classical 
*' writer in the French language — the first whom a gentleman is ashamed not to 
" have read. So long as an unaffected style, and an appearance of the utmost 
"simplicity and good nature, shall charm, — so long as the lovers of desultory 
"and cheerful conversation shall be more numerous than those who prefer a 
" lecture or a sermon, — so long as reading is sought by the many as an amuse- 
" ment in idleness, or a resource in pain — so long will Montaigne be among the 
" most favourite authors of mankind."] 

If there be any law truly natural^ that is to say, any instinct that is 
universally and perpetually imprinted both on man and beast, (which 
is a disputed point) I may give it as my opinion, that, next to the care 
which every animal has of self-preservation, and of avoiding every 
thing that is hurtful, the affection which the breeder or begetter bears 
to the offspring stands in the second place : and because nature seems 
to have implanted it in us, for the purpose of supporting the species, it 
is no wonder that the love of children does not go back to their 
parents in so great a degree. To which we may add this other Aris- 
totelian notion, that he who does a benefit to any one, loves him better 
than he is beloved by him ; and he to whom a benefit is due,:}: loves 
more than he who owes it : so every artificer is fonder of his work- 
manship than, if that piece of work had sense, it would be of him, 
because we love existence, and existence consists in motion and action : 



* Charles Cotton, the friend of Izaak Walton, (see p. 426,) was born at Beresford 
Hall, Staffordshire, in 1630, and died at Westminster in 1687. He translated Mon- 
taigne's " Essays," Corneille's " Horace," and other works, and is the author of " The 
Wonders of the Peake," published in 1681, and other poems. 

t See p. 200. X Ethics, ix. 7, 

K K 



498 THF. EFERY-DJY BOOK [Montaigne. 

for this reason every one has, in some sort, a being in his work. He 
who does a good office, performs an action that is brave and honest : 
he who receives it only practises the utile. Now the utile is not near 
so amiable as the honestum. The honestum is stable and permanent, 
supplying him who has performed it with a constant satisfaction. The 
utile loses itself, and easily slides away j nor is the memory of it either 
so fresh or fragrant. Those things are dearest to us that have cost 
most, and giving is more chargeable than receiving. 

Since it has pleased God to endue us with some capacity of discuss- 
ing things, to the end that we may not be slavishly subject, like the 
brute animals, to the common laws of nature, but that we may apply 
ourselves to them with judgment and free-will ; we ought indeed, to 
yield a little to the mere authority of nature, but not to suffer ourselves 
to be tyrannically hurried away by her j for reason ought to be the sole 
conductor of our inclinations. For my own part, I have a strange 
disgust to those propensities, that start up in us without the direction 
and mediation of our judgment : as for instance, while I am treating 
of the subject, I cannot entertain the passion of dandling infants in the 
month, when they have no apparent perception in the soul, nor shape 
of body to make them amiable ; and I never willingly suffered them 
to be nursed in my presence. 

Such an afiection for children as is real, and well regulated, ought 
to spring and increase with the knowledge they give us of them- 
selves 3 and then, if they are worthy of it, natural propensity, walking 
in the same pace with reason, will make us cherish them with a fond- 
ness truly paternal 3 if they are otherwise, we ought in the same 
manner to exercise our judgment of them by always submitting to 
reason, notwithstanding the power of nature. But it often happens on 
the contrary 3 and, generally speaking, we are more smitten with the 
caperings and silly frolics of our children, than we are afterwards with 
their actions when they are directed by judgment 3 as if we had Joved 
them for our pastime, as monkeys, not as human beings. And there 
are some who furnish their children bountifully with playthings, yet 
grudge the least necessary expence for them when they are grown up. 
Nay, it seems as if our being more niggardly and close-fisted to them 
proceeded from our envy at seeing them make a figure, and enjoy them- 
selves in the world when we are on the point of leaving it. We are 
vexed to see them tread upon our heels, as if they wanted us to be 
gone ; and if this should be really our fear, since such is the order of 
things that children cannot, to speak the truth, exist nor live but at the 
expence of our being and life, we should never have concerned our- 
selves in getting them. 

For my part, 1 think it cruelty and injustice not to admit them into 



Scott.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 499 

a share and partnership of oar substance, nor to associate them in the 
secret of our domestic affairs when they are capable of such know- 
ledge 5 and that it would be altogether as wicked for us not to lessen, 
abridge, and contract our own conveniences, on purpose to make pro- 
vision for theirs, since we begat them for that end. It is unjust, that 
an old father, battered with age, and with one foot in the grave, should 
enjoy alone, in his chimney-corner, the substance that would suffice 
for the maintenance and advancement of several children ; and that he 
should suffer them to lose the best of their time, for want of allowing 
them the means to put themselves forward in the service of the public, 
and the knowledge of mankind. — Essays. Of the AJJ'ectmi of Parents 
to their Children. Vol. ii. chap. viii. 



212.— CASTLE-BUILDING. 



[Sir W. Scott, Bart., 1771 — 1832. 
[Walter Scott, born in Edinburgh, Aug. 15, 1771, being a sickly child, was sent to 
live with his grandfather, a farmer. He was at the High School, Edinburgh, from 
1779 till 1783, when he entered the University, was apprenticed to his father as 
writer to the Signet in 1786, and was called to the Bar in 1792. He married 
Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, a lady of French extraction, in 1797, and was made 
sheriff depute of Selkirkshire in 1 799. His first publication, a translation of Burger's 
Ballads, " Lenore" and the " Wild Huntsman," which appeared in 1796, was followed 
by a translation of Goethe's " Goetz von Berlichingen" in 1798, and some ballads 
in 1799. The first two volumes of "Border Minstrelsy" appeared in 1802; the 
third in 1803; "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" in 1805; " Marmion," and his 
edition of Dryden, in 1808; "The Lady of the Lake" in 1810; "The Vision of 
Don Roderick" in 181 1; " Rokeby" in 1812; "The Bridal of Triermain " ini8i3; 
and his edition of Swift in 1814. The wonderful fame of Byron induced Scott to 
abandon poetry, and the first of his historical romances, " Waverley, or 'tis Sixty 
Years since," appeared anonymously in 18 14, and the secret was not fully revealed 
for some years. It was followed by a succession of works that secured the fame, and 
would have made the fortune of their author, had he not embarked in an unfortunate 
speculation with the firm of Ballantyne and Constable, and on their failure in 1826, 
he became responsible for nearly ^^150,000. His efforts to meet these claims 
affected his health, and he was attacked by paralysis in 1830. Change was recom- 
mended, and he visited Italy j but he received little benefit from the trip, and 
returned to his favourite seat, Abbotsford, near Melrose, where he died Sep. 21, 
1832, and was buried at Dry burgh Abbey, Sep. 26. His Life, by his son-in-law 
J. G. Lockhart, was published in 1837-9. Numerous memoirs and collected editions 
of Sir Walter Scott's prose and poetical works have appeared.] 

The deeds of Wilibert of Waverley in the Holy Land, his long ab- 
sence and perilous adventures, his supposed death, and his return on 
the evening when the betrothed of his heart had wedded the hero 
who had protected her from insult and oppression during his absence j 
the generosity with which the Crusader relinquished his claims, and 
sought in a neighbouring cloister that peace which passeth not awayj 

K K 2 



500 



THE ErERY-DJY BOOK 



[Scott. 



— to these and similar tales he (Edward Waverley) would hearken till 
his heart glowed and his eye glistened. Nor was he less affected, 
when his aunt, Mrs. Rachel, narrated the sufferings and fortitude of 
Lady Alice Waverley during the Great Civil War. The benevolent 
features of the venerable spinster kindled into more majestic expression, 
as she told how Charles had, after the field of Worcester, found a day's 
refuge at Waverley-Honour, and how, when a troop of cavalry were 
approaching to search the mansion. Lady Alice dismissed her youngest 
son with a handful of domestics^, charging them to make good with 
their lives an hour's diversion, that the king might have that space for 
escape. ^^ And, God help her," would Mrs. Rachel continue, fixing 
her eyes upon the heroine's portrait as she spoke, '^ full dearly did she 
purchase the safety of her prince with the life of her darling child. 
They brought him here a prisoner, mortally wounded -, and you may 
trace the drops of his blood from the great hall door along the little 
gallery, and up to the saloon, where they laid him down to die at his 
mother's feet. But there was comfort exchanged between them ; for 
he knew, from the glance of his mother's eye, that the purpose of his 
desperate defence was attained.- Ah ! I remember," she continued, 
" I remember well to have seen one that knew and loved him. Miss 
Lucy St. Aubin lived and died a maid for his sake, though one of the 
most beautiful and wealthy matches in this country j all the world ran 
after her, but she wore widow's mourning all her hfe for poor William, 
for they were betrothed though not married, and died in I can- 
not think of the date 3 but I remember, in the November of that very 
year, when she found herself sinking, she desired to be brought to 
Waverley-Honour once more, and visited all the places where she had 
been with my grand-uncle, and caused the carpets to be raised that 
she might trace the impression of his blood, and if tears could have 
washed it out, it had not been there now j for there was not a dry eye 
in the house. You would have thought, Edward, that the very trees 
mourned for her, for their leaves dropt around her without a gust of 
wind ; and, indeed, she looked like one that would never see them 
green again." 

From such legends our hero would steal away to indulge the fancies 
they excited. In the corner of the large and sombre library, with no 
other light than was afforded by the decaying brands on its ponderous 
and ample hearth, he would exercise for hours that internal sorcery, by 
which past or imaginary events are presented in action, as it were, to 
the eye of the muser. Then arose in long and fair array the splendour 
of the bridal feast at Waverley-Castle j the tall and emaciated form 
of its real lord, as he stood in his pilgrim's weeds, an unnoticed spec- 
tator of the festivities of his supposed heir and intended bride ; the 



Scott.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 501 

electrical shock occasioned by the discovery ; the springing of the 
vassals to arms 3 the astonishment of the bridegroom ; the terror and 
confusion of the bride ; the agony with which Wilibert observed, that 
her heart as well as consent was in these nuptials j the air of dignity, 
yet of deep feeling with which he flung down the half-drawn sword, 
and turned away for ever from the house of his ancestors. Then 
would he change the scene, and fancy would at his wish represent 
Aunt Rachel's tragedy. He saw the Lady Waverley seated in hei 
bower, her ear strained to every sound, her heart throbbing with 
double agony, now listening to the decaying echo of the hoofs of the 
king's horse, and when that had died away, hearing in every breeze 
that shook the trees of the park, the noise of the remote skirmish. A 
distant sound is heard like the rushing of a swollen stream ; it comes 
nearer, and Edward can plainly distinguish the galloping of horses, the 
cries and shouts of men, with straggling pistol-shots between, rolling 
forwards to the hall. The lady starts up — a terrified menial rushes in 
— but why pursue such a description ? 

As living in this ideal world became daily more delectable to our 
hero, interruption was disagreeable in proportion. The extensive 
domain that surrounded the Hall, which, far exceeding the dimen- 
sions of a park, was usually termed Waverley-Chase, had originally 
been forest ground, and still, though broken by extensive glades, in 
which the young deer were sporting, retained its pristine and savage 
character. It was trav^ersed by broad avenues, in many places half 
grown up with brush- wood, w^here the beauties of former days used to 
take their stand to see the stag coursed with grey-hounds, or to gain an 
aim at him with the cross-bow. In one spot, distinguished by a moss- 
grown Gothic monument, which retained the name of Queen's Stand- 
ing, Elizabeth herself was said to have pierced seven bucks with her 
own arrows. This was a very favourite haunt of Waverley. At other 
times, with his gun and his spaniel, which served as an apology to 
others, and with a book in his pocket, which perhaps served as an 
apology to himself, he used to pursue one of these long avenues, 
which, after an ascending sweep of four miles, gradually narrowed 
into a rude and contracted path through the clitlv" and woody pass 
called Mirkwood Dingle, and opened suddenly upon a deep, dark, 
and small lake, named, from the same cause, Mirkwood-Mere. There 
stood, in former times, a solitary tower upon a rock almost surrounded 
by the water, which had acquired the name of the Strength of 
Waverley, because, in perilous times, it had often been the refuge of 
the family. There in the wars of York and Lancaster, the last 
adherents of the Red Rose who dared to maintain her cause, carried 
on a harassing and predatory warfare, till the stronghold was reduced 



502 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Coxe. 

by the celebrated Richard of Gloucester. Here, too, a party of 
cavaliers long maintained themselves under Nigel Waverley, elder 
brother of that William vt^hose fate Aunt Rachel commemorated. 
Through these scenes it was that Edward loved to '' chew the cud of 
sweet and bitter fancy," and, like a child among his toys, culled and 
arranged, from the splendid yet useless imagery and emblems with 
which his imagination was stored, visions as brilliant and as fading as 
those of an evening sky. — IVaverley ; or, 'tis Sixty Years since. Vol. i. 
chap. iy. 



213.— THE EVE OF BLENHEIM. 

[Archdeacon Coxe, 1747 — 1828. 
[William Coxe, born in London, in March, 1747, and educated at Cambridge, acted as 
tutor to the sons of several noblemen, and travelled for some time on the Continent. 
He was appointed curate of Denham, near Uxbridge, in 1771, and after various pre- 
ferments became Archdeacon of Wilts in 1805. His " Sketches of the Natural, Civil, 
and Political State of Switzerland, in a Series of Letters to W. Melmoth," appeared 
in 1779; his "Travels in Poland, Russia, Sweden, and Denmark" in 1784; his 
"History of the House of Austria" in 1792; his " Memoirs of Sir Robert Walpole" in 
1798; his "History of the Kings of Spain of the House of Bourbon, from 1700 to 
1788," in i8i3jand his "Memoirs of John, Duke of Marlborough, with his 
Original Correspondence," in 181 7-9. He died at Bemerton, Wilts, to which living 
he had been appointed, June 15, 1828.] 

Marlborough had scarcely retired to enjoy a short interval of rest, 
before an express arrived from Eugene, announcing that the enemy 
had crossed the Danube, and pressing for immediate succour. Indeed, 
on returning to his camp, he found that the officers left in command 
had taken the alarm, and were preparing to fall back to the Schellen- 
berg. As he was already joined by the Duke of Wirtemberg, and as 
General Churchill was in a situation to support him, he maintained 
the line of the Kessel, with the cavalry, while he sent his baggage to 
Donawerth, and his infantry to the Schellenberg, with orders to 
prepare the intrenchments for defence. By repeated messengers he 
urged Marlborough to accelerate his march, from a conviction that the 
enemy would advance on the ensuing day, because their detachments 
had already appeared near Steinheim. 

The exertions of Marlborough were commensurate with the peril of 
the crisis. At midnight General Churchill received orders to advance 
and join Eugene ; and within two hours the main army was in motion. 
For the sake of expedition, the second line, with the rear guard, passed 
the Danube over the bridge at Merxheim, while the first traversed the 
Lech, opposite Rain, and the Danube, at Donawerth^ and at four in 
the afternoon the different columns filed over the Wernitz, under the 
eye of the commander himself. At six a communication was opened 



Coxe.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 503 

with Eugene, and the junction being completed at ten,'* the combined 
armies encamped between Erlingshofen and Kessel-Ostheim, with the 
Kessel in their front, and the Danube on the left. The brigade of 
General Rowe, reinforced by a battalion of English guards, was 
pushed across the rivulet, to take post in front of Munster. At the 
dawn of the 12th (Aug., 1704), the generals were gratified by the 
arrival of the baggage and artillery, which had marched no less than 
twenty-four English miles on the preceding day. 

It was the intention of Marlborough and Eugene to advance beyond 
the Nebel, and take up a position in the vicinity of Hochstadt. For 
this purpose, during the morning of the 12th, they proceeded at the 
head of the grand guards to survey the ground in their front, and 
procure intelligence. On approaching Schweningen, they observed 
several hostile squadrons at a distance, but being unable to form an 
accurate judgment of their force, they ascended the tower of Dapf- 
heim church, from whence they descried the quarter-masters of the 
Gallo-Bavarian army, marking out a camp beyond the Nebel, between 
Blenheim and Lutzingen. 

This discovery fulfilled the warmest wishes of the enterprising com- 
manders. Aware that the confusion which is almost inseparable from 
the change of camps, presents the most favourable opportunity for an 
attack, they determined to give battle, before the enemy could 
strengthen themselves in their new position. With this view they 
dispatched 400 pioneers, to level a ravine formed beyond Dapfheim 
by the Reichen, and the picket-guards were called out to protect the 
work. Returning from their survey, they had scarcely sat down to 
their repast, before intelligence arrived that the squadrons seen in the 
morning near Schweningen were engaged with the pickets. The 
alarm was instantly spread ; the two commanders remounted their 
horses, and directed the brigade of Rowe to file through Dapfheim, 
in support of the troops attacked. Several squadrons of cavalry, and 
twelve battalions of Marlborough's first line, commanded by Lord 
Cutts, moved forward ; and the Prussian infantry, which formed part 
of the right wing, advanced towards the scene of conflict, along the 
skirt of the wooded eminences bordering the plain. The whole of 
the allied cavalry were ordered to hold themselves in readiness, and 
the infantry prepared for action. But the alarm proved false ; for the 
enemy being detached only for the purpose of gaining intelligence, 
retired after making a few prisoners. Two brigades, under the com- 

* This account of the movements for the junction of the two armies is taken from 
the private correspondence of Marlborough, and the printed despatches, compared v^rith 
Hare's " Journal of the Campaign," Milner, and the different biographers of Marl- 
borough. 



504 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[Davis. 



mand of General Wilkes and Brigadier Rowe, were accordingly left 
for the defence of the pass, and the rest of the troops returned to 
cannp. 

Meanwhile the Gallo-Bavarians entered the position marked out, 
and extended their lines along the elevated ground, stretching from 
Blenheim to Lutzingen, Marshal Tallard took up his quarters at 
Blenheim, Marsin at Oberglauh, and the Elector at Lutzingen. 

As the preparations of the confederate generals indicated an 
approaching engagement, some officers, who were well acquainted 
with the superiority of the hostile forces, and the strength of their 
position, ventured to remonstrate with Marlborough on the temerity 
of the attempt. He heard them with calmness and attention 3 but 
conscious that the enemy would speedily fortify their position, while 
Villeroy advancing into Wirtemberg, would cut off the communica- 
tion with Franconia, from whence the army drew the principal 
supplies, he answered, " I know the danger, yet a battle is absolutely 
" necessary, and I rely on the bravery and discipline of the troops, 
*' which will make amends for our disadvantages." In the evening 
orders were issued for a general engagement, and received by the 
army with an alacrity which justified his confidence. 

At this solemn crisis Marlborough felt a deep and awful sense of his 
own responsibility, as well as of the impending peril. He devoted 
part of the night to prayer, and towards morning received the sacra- 
ment from the hands of his chaplain, Mr. Hare, with marks of the 
warmest devotion. He then took a short repose, and employed the 
remaining interval in concerting with Eugene the various arrange- 
ments for a battle, which appeared to involve the fate of the 
Christian world. — Memoirs of the Duke of Marlborough. Chap. xxv. 
Passage of the Danube, 1704. 



214.— THE ANTIQUITIES OF TEBESSA. 

[N.Davis, 1812. 
[Nathan Davis, born about 181 2, became a dissenting minister, and applied himself 
to the study of Arabian and Hebrew antiquities. Having travelled in Africa he pub- 
lished, in 1841, "Tunis; or. Selections from a Journal kept during a Residence in 
that Regency;" in 1844, "A Voice from North Africa;" and in 1854, " Evenings 
in my Tent; or. Wanderings in Balad Eijareed." Lord Clsrendon sent him in 
1856 to make explorations on the site of ancient Carthage, and the result of his 
labours appeared, under the title "Carthage and her Remains," in 1861.] 

Early on the following morning we took a stroll through the town,''^ 
and soon made the acquaintance of several French officers, two of whom 



* The modern Tebessa, which occupies the site of the Byzantine citadel of Teveste. 



Davis.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 505 

very courteously volunteered to act as our cicerones. These gentlemen 
conducted us first of all to what is considered the gem of the antiqui- 
ties of Tebessa, the elegant little temple which is called that of 
Minerva. This little edifice, which is seventy-six feet long by fifty and 
a half wide, is now used as a temporary Roman Catholic chapel. It 
is a prostyle, of a mixed architecture in which the Roman Corinthian 
order predominates, and is richly, and elaborately, decorated. The six 
columns of the pronaos, the four in front and the two lateral, are 
monoliths, of a white marble with blue veins. The sides of the temple 
have projecting pilasters, surmounted by composite capitals. The 
architrave is divided into square panels, the ornaments of each consist- 
ing of an eagle, two serpents, and oak branches. These panels are 
separated from each other by metopes, having the ram's, or ox's, 
skull carved on them, and placed immediately above the capitals. 
The metopes are precisely like those one meets with between the 
triglyphs in the Roman Doric friezes. 

An elaborate cornice separates the architrave from the attic, and 
this too is divided into panels, corresponding exactly with those below 
in position. The ornaments of these are not uniformly the same 3 in 
some it consists of a double cornucopia, and in others in festoons, but 
in the squares just above the rams' heads we have either trophies or 
bas-reliefs of Hercules. Above these, it would appear, the temple 
was originally ornamented by a number of statues, but these, if they 
existed, have now totally disappeared. 

Though this temple has suffered much from the ravages of time, it 
is in much better preservation than many other edifices of the same 
period. To me it appears to have been dedicated to Jupiter, as the 
symbolical ornaments, with which it is embellished, have a greater 
reference to that divinity than to Minerva 3 but Captain Moll, the 
commandant of Tebessa, a very intelligent man, who has made 
Numidian antiquities his study, is of opinion that it belonged to the 
goddess of wisdom. His chief support is in those panels which have 
the serpents, and next in the eagle, which he has converted into an 
owl. The defaced condition of some of these birds appears to favour 
his view. There are, however, several in a more perfect state, and 
in these he cannot fail to recognise his mistake. 

That Minerva was revered at Teveste there can be no doubt, since 
her name is recorded in an inscription found immediately to the left, 
or N.W., of the triumphal arch, but it is very questionable whether 
she had a temple here. The inscription I alhide to purports to be the 
testament of Cornehus Egrilianus, a praefect, who, among other 
bequests, directs his executors, his own brothers, to place one, or more, 
(the inscription being mutilated) statues of Minerva in the forum. 



5o6 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Evelyn. 

Now if Minerva had a temple at Teveste, it appears to me to be more 
probable that the testator would have ordered those statues to be 
placed in the sanctuary of that deity. But whether this conjecture be 
feasible or not, I still maintain that there is more ground for the 
belief that this little temple was dedicated to Jupiter than to Minerva. — 
Ruined Cities within Numidian and Carthaginian Territories. Chap. vii. 



215.--FROST FAIR ON THE THAMES, 1684. 

[Evelyn, 1620 — 1706. 
[John Evelyn, second son of Richard Evelyn, born at Wotton, Surrey, Oct. 31, 1620, 
and educated at the free school at Lewes and Balliol College, Oxford, went abroad in 
1641, and served as a volunteer in Flanders. Soon after his return, instead of taking 
part in the civil war, he obtained permission from Charles I. to go to the Continent, 
where he resided from 1644 to 1652. He acted as commissioner to take care of the 
sick and the wounded in the Dutch war in 1664, and in several public capacities. 
Evelyn, however, devoted himself to study and retirement. Having written some 
short tracts, he published "The French Gardiner" in 1658, "Sculptura; or the 
History and Art of Chalcography and Engraving on Copper," in 1662, and 
"Sylva; or a Discourse of Forest Trees," in 1664. The work by which he is best 
known is '* Memoirs illustrative of his Life and Writings, comprising his Diary from 
1641 to 1705-6, and a Selection of his Familiar Letters," edited by W. Bray, 
published in 1818. His "Lifeof Godolphin," edited by Bishop Wilberforce, appeared 
in 1848, and his " History of Religion: a Natural Account of the True Religion," 
edited by the Rev. R. M. Evanson, in 1850. This book has gone through 
numerous editions. In Oct., 1699, Evelyn succeeded to the family estate at 
Wotton, where he died Feb. 27, 1706.] 

1683-4. i-^^ January. The weather continuing intolerably severe, 
streets of booths were set upon the Thames ; the air was so very cold 
and thick, as of many years there had not been the like. 

6th. The river quite frozen. 

^th. I went across the Thames on the ice, now become so thick as 
to bear not only streets of booths, in which they roasted meat, and had 
divers shops of wares, quite across as in a town, but coaches, carts, and 
horses passed over. So I went from Westminster-stairs to Lambeth, 
and dined with the Archbishop : where I met my Lord Bruce, Sir 
George Wheeler, Colonel Cooke, and several divines. After dinner 
and discourse with his Grace till evening prayers, Sir George Wheeler 
and I walked over the ice from Lambeth-stairs to the Horse- 
ferry. 

i6lh January. The Thames was filled with people and tents, selling 
all sorts of wares as in the City. 

24/A. The frost continuing more and more severe, the Thames 



Evelyn.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 507 

before London was still planted with booths in formal streets, all sorts 
of trades and shops furnished, and full of commodities, even to a 
printing-press, where the people and ladies took a fancy to have their 
names printed, and the day and year set down when printed on the 
Thames : this humour took so universally, that it was estimated the 
printer gained ^^ a day, for printing a line only, at sixpence a name, 
besides what he got by ballads, &c. Coaches plied from Westminster 
to the Temple, and from several other stairs to and fro, as in the 
streets, sleds, sliding with skates, a bull-baiting, horse and coach-races, 
puppet-plays and interludes, cooks, tippling, and other lewd places, so 
that it seemed to be a bacchanalian triumph, or carnival on the water, 
whilst it was a severe judgment on the land, the trees not only splitting 
as if lightning-struck, but men and cattle perishing in divers places, 
and the very seas so locked up with ice, that no vessels could stir out 
or come in. The fowls, fish, and birds, and all our exotic plants and 
greens, universally perishing. Many parks of deer were destroyed, 
and all sorts of fuel so dear, that there were great contributions to 
preserve the poor alive. Nor was this severe weather much less 
intense in most parts of Europe, even as far as Spain and the most 
southern tracts. London, by reason of the excessive coldness of the 
air hindering the ascent of the smoke, was so filled with the fuliginous 
steam of the sea-coal, that hardly could one see across the streets, and 
this fiUing the lungs with its gross particles, exceedingly obstructed 
the breast, so as one could scarcely breathe. Here was no water to 
be had from the pipes and engines, nor could the brewers and divers 
other tradesmen work, and every moment was full of disastrous 
accidents. 

^th February. I went to Sayes Court to see how the frost had dealt 
with my garden, where I found many of the greens and rare plants 
utterly destroyed. The oranges and myrtles very sick, the rosemary 
and laurels dead to all appearance, but the cypress likely to 
endure it. 

^th. It began to thaw, but froze again. My coach crossed from 
Lambeth to the Horse-ferry at Milbank, Westminster. The booths 
were almost all taken down ; but there was first a map or landscape 
cut in copper representing all the manner of the camp, and the several 
actions, sports, and pastimes thereon, in memory of so signal a frost.* — 
Diary of John Evelyn. 



* Various representations of this curious scene of Frost Fair, both in wood and 
copperplate engravings, preserve some idea of what it must have been. 



5o8 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Blair. 



216.— THE LOSS OF EDEN. 

[Blair, 1699 — 1747. 
[Robert Blair, born in Edinburgh in 1699, was ordained minister of Athelstaneford 
in Haddingtonshire, in 1731, where he remained till his death, which occurred 
Feb. 4, 1747. His poem "The Grave" was first published in London in 1743. 
Campbell (" Essay on Poetry") remarks :• — " The eighteenth century has produced 
" few specimens of blank verse of so familiar and simple a character as that of ' The 
" Grave.' " The following extract contains the well-known lines so often incor- 
rectly quoted — 

" its visits. 
Like those of angels, short and far between."] 

Poor man ! — how happy once in thy first state ! 
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand. 
He stamped thee witli his image, and, well-pleased. 
Smiled on his last fair work. — Then all was well. 
Sound was the body, and the soul serene j 
Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune, , 
That play their several parts. — Nor head, nor heart, 
Offered to ache ; nor was there cause they should 3 
For all was pure within : no fell remorse. 
Nor anxious castings-up of what might be. 
Alarmed his peaceful bosom. — Summer seas 
Show not more smooth, when kissed by southern winds, 
Jast ready to expire. — Scarce importuned. 
The generous soil, with a luxurious hand. 
Offered the various produce of the year. 
And every thing most perfect in its kind. 
Blessed ! thrice blessed days ! — But, ah ! how short ! 
Blessed as the pleasing dreams of holy men j 
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone. 

Oh ! slippery state of things ! — What sudden turns ! 
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf 
Of man's sad history ! — To-day most happy. 
And ere to-morrow's Sun has set, most abject. 
How scant the space between these vast extremes ! 
Thus fared it with our sire : — not long he enjoyed 
His Paradise — scarce had the happy tenant 
Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets. 
Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone. 
Ne'er to return again. — And must he go ? 
Can naught compound for the first dire offence 
Of erring man ? — Like one that is condemned^ 
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk. 



Laud.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 509 

And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain— ■ 

Not all the lavish odours of the place 

Offered in incense can procure his pardon. 

Or mitigate his doom. — A mighty angel 

With flaming sword forbids his longer stay. 

And drives the loiterer forth 3 nor must he take 

One last and farewell round. — At once he lost 

His glory and his God. — If mortal now, 

And sorely maimed, no wonder. — Man has sinned. 

Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures. 

Evil he needs would try : nor tried in vain. 

(Dreadful experiment ! destructive measure ! 

Where the worst thing could happen, is success.) 

Alas ! too well he sped ; the good he scorned 

Stalked off reluctant like an ill used ghost. 

Not to return ; — or if it did, its visits. 

Like those of angels, short and far between : 

Whilst the black Demon, with his Hell-scaped train. 

Admitted once into its better room. 

Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone 3 

Lording it o'er the man : who now too late 

Saw the rash error, which he could not mend : 

An error fatal not to him alone. 

But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs. 

Inglorious bondage ! — Human nature groans 

Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel. 

And its vast body bleeds through every vein. 

The Grave. 



217.— DAVID'S PRAYER FOR HIMSELF AND SON.* 

[Archbp. Laud, 1573 — 1645. 

[William Laud, son of a clothier, born at Reading October 7, 1573, was educated at 
the Free Grammar School of his native town and St. John's College, Oxford. In 
1607, he obtained the vicarage of Stanford, Northamptonshire, and his rise was very- 
rapid. He was made president of St. John's College, Oxford, in 161 1, and Dean of 
Gloucester in 1616. Having accompanied James I. to Scotland in 1617, hewas 
appointed Bishop of St. David's in 1621 ; of Bath and Wells, and Dean of the Chapel 
Royal, in 1626; a privy councillor in 1627 ; Bishop of London in 1628; Chancellor 
of the University of Oxford in 1630; and Archbishop of Canterbury in 1633. Laud 
was appointed one of the great Committee of Trade and the King's Revenue in 



* "Give the king thy judgments, O God, anl thy righteousness unto the king's 
son." — Psalm Ixxii. v. i. 



51 o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Laud. 

Feb. 1634, and afterwards one of the commissinners to whom the management of 
the Treasury was committed. Soon after the meeting of the Long Parliament, he 
was impeached for high treason, and committed to the Tower, March i, 1641. His 
trial took place Nov. 13, 1643, before the House of Lords, who did not find him 
guilty. The Long Parliament, however, determined to make him a victim. The 
Commons passed an ordinance for his execution, and he was beheaded Jan. 10, 1645. 
Laud, who was a great benefactor to learning, enriched the Bodleian Library wnth 
numerous valuable MSS., and founded an Arabic professorship at Oxford in 1636. 
His celebrated conference with Fisher (whose real name was John Pierce, or Percey,) 
the Jesuit, took place in May 1622, and the first edition of the "Relation of the 
Conference," &c., appeared in 1624. Some sermons were published separately 
during his lifetime. " The History of the Troubles and Trial of William Laud," 
with his Diary prefixed, edited by the Rev. H. Warton, appeared in 1695 and 1700. 
A Life by W. Prynne, was published in 1644; another, by P. Heylin, in 1668; another, 
by J. P. Lawson, in 1829; and another by Baines in 1855. Numerous biographies 
have been written, and his Works appeared at Oxford 1847 — 57-] 

None but God can see to drop Justice and Judgment into the deep 
heart of the King j none but only Pater luviinum, the Father of 
Lights, that stands over, and sees how to do it. 

And yet I must tell you here, that while he prays for God's Justice, 
and Judgment for himself^ and his Son, it must be understood with a 
great deal of difference, and that in two respects. 

First, because God's Judgment, as it is in God, is substantial. It is 
so in God, as it is his essence, himself. This way no King is capable 
of God's Justice, because it is his essence. But Justice as it is given to 
the King, is a quality, an accident, and that is separable, if God either 
leave to give, or desist from preserving that that he hath given ; there- 
fore Kings have great need to pray for this Justice, because they can 
neither have it, nor keep it without him. 

Secondly, because Justice as it is in God, is Lumen, all light, so 
bright, that even impious men themselves cannot but acknowledge it, 
even when they are condemned by it. So clear that no entangled 
cause can cloud it, no corner sin can avoid it. And this way again 
no King is capable of God's Light, because that is a thing incom- 
municable as his substance, as essential as he. But Justice as it is 
given to a King, is but Lucerna, but a Candle-Light, an imparted 
Light ) a Light that is kindled, and set up in a material substance, and 
so darkened with dregs: yet even this Light Kings must pray for : 
and it is but need they should : for if God give not even this Light, it 
is impossible the King should see how to do Justice ; or that he should 
discern how to execute those judgments that God hath given him. 

Therefore the Lighting up of this Candle in the heart of the King, 
the Light of Justice and Judgment, is a marvellous blessing, and God 
himself accounts it so 3 and it appears. 

First, because among the many threatenings, that he thunders out 
against rebeUious people^ this is one, that he will take from them the 



Alison.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 511 

Light of a Candle, Jer, xxv., he will not leave them so much light : and 
it was so : for God's Judgment departed away from the King, the 
King lost the Kingdom, and the people were led away in darkness to 
captivity. So you may see what it is to want the light of judgment in 
a King. 

Secondly, it appears to be great by the promises of God : for among 
the many professions, that he makes to this glorious King David, this 
was one, that he had ordained a Light for him, PsaL. cxxxii. So then 
you see by the presence of this light, what the benefit is to have it. 
But then still Kings themselves, and the people must remember, it is 
but Lucerna, but a Candle lighted at that great light, the Lamp of 
God J And being but a Candle light, it is easily blown out, if God keep 
not his light about the King to renew it 5 and if God provide not a 
fence for this Light of Justice against the winds of temptation that 
bluster about it. Therefore our old English translation reads that 
place in the Psalm happily, / have provided (saith that Translation) not 
only a light, but a Lanthorn for mine Anointed, to carry this Light. 
And this improves the blessing a great deal further : For there is no 
carrying of this Light without the Lanthorn of God's own ordaining : 
the temptations that beset the King are so many, and so strong, that 
except this Lanthorn defend the light, all the Light of Justice and 
judgment will out. And this Lanthorn is so hard to make, that God 
himself must ordain it, or else the King cannot have it : for who can 
fence, and keep in God's blessings, but himself? Therefore David 
here went very right in his prayer, marvellous right, both for himself, 
and for his Son, da Domine, Give Lord, not the light of thy judgment, 
and justice only ; but give the Lanthorn too for thine Anointed, that 
he may be able with honour to carry through this Light of Justice, 
and Judgment, before his people. — Sermon VII. Preached at Paul's 
Cross, in commemoration of King Charles' Inauguration. 



218.— OF GRACE. 

[Rev. a. Alison-, 1757 — 1839. 
[Archibald Alisox, father of Sir Archibald Alison, Bart., the historian, born in 
Edinburgh in 1757, was educated at the University of Glasgow and Baliol C<:<llege, 
Oxford. He was ordained and appointed curate at Brancepeth, Durham, in 1784; 
obtained the perpetual curacy of Kenley, in Shropshire, in 1790; a prebendal stall in 
Salisbury cathedral in 1791 ; the vicarage of Ercall, in Shropshire, in 1794; and the 
living of Roddington, in Shropshire, in 1797. In 1800 he accepted an invitation to 
become senior minister of the Episcopal Chapel, Cowgate, Edinburgh; and in 1831 
removed to St. Paul's Chapel. He died in his native city in July, 1839. ^is chief work, 
" Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste," was published in 1 790. " Sermons, 
chiefly on Particular Occasions," appeared in 1814 — 15, and, like the former work. 



512 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Alison. 

has been frequently republished. Dr. Dibdin speaks of " the beautiful and refined 
fancy, and melodious style of this writer."] 

The preceding illustrations are intended to show, that the Sublimity 
or Beauty of attitude and gesture, arises not from any causes of a 
material kind, nor from any law by which certain material appear- 
ances are immediately productive of these sentiments, but from their 
being adapted to express, and being felt as expressive of amiable, or 
interesting, or respectable qualities of the Human Mind. In con- 
cluding those illustrations, I have completed all that I had properly in 
view in that investigation. 

There is, however, a quality of which the Human Form is sus- 
ceptible, and which is occasionally found both in its positions and in 
its motions, which is not sufficiently accounted for by this theory. 
This quality is Grace j a quality different from Beauty, though 
nearly allied to it ; which is never observ^ed without aifecting us with 
emotions of peculiar delight, and which it is, perhaps, the first object 
of the arts of sculpture and of painting to study and to present. Upon 
this subject, while I presume to offer a few additional observations, I 
am yet to request my readers to consider them rather as conjectures 
than as the results of any formal inquiry. 

That there is a difference between the qualities of Beauty and of 
Grace, in the Human Form, must, I conceive, everywhere be admitted. 
The terms themselves are neither synonymous, nor are used synony- 
mously ; the emotions we receive from them are easily distinguishable, 
and are every day distinguished in common language ; and when we 
refer to experience, we may find a thousand instances, in which the 
positions and movements of the form are beautiful without being 
graceful. Beauty, indeed, in some degree or other, is to be found in 
the most common appearances of man ; but Grace is rarely seen. We 
often lament its absence, while we are conscious of the presence of 
Beauty ; and it everywhere seems to us to demand some higher and 
more uncommon requisites than those which are necessary to mere 
Beauty. 

It seems to me, still further, that the appearances of Grace in the 
attitudes or gestures of the form, are never perceived without afl^ecting 
us with some sentiment of respect or admiration for the person whose 
form expresses them. When we observe the attitudes of joy, or hope, 
or innocent gaiety, we feel delight} but not respect, for those who 
exhibit them. When we observe the attitudes of grief, or melancholy, 
or despondence, we feel sympathy, and the delight which Nature has 
annexed to social interest j but we do not necessarily feel admiration. 
The gestures of rage, in the same manner, of force, of anguish, of terror, 
may affect us with very sublime emotions of fear, of astonishment, of 



D'Arblay.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 513 

awful interest ; but they may be unaccompanied with any emotion of 
admiration or respect for the individual who displays them. Whenever, 
on the contrary, we witness the Graceful in gesture or attitude, we 
feel, I apprehend, an additional sentiment of respect -, a conviction of 
something dignified or exalted in the mind of the person, and of which 
the gesture or attitude employed is felt as significant to us. How far 
this proposition is true, must be finally determined by the consciousness of 
my readers. I shall observe only, that it seems to me very strongly 
justified both by the language of philosophers, and by the common 
language of the world. When we hear any attitude or gesture 
described as graceful, we are conscious, I think, of immediately feeling 
some sentiment of respect or admiration for the individual who displays 
it. Whenever we use the same term ourselves, we mean always to 
convey to those who hear us, a similar sentiment. Every attitude or 
gesture of a well-proportioned form, which is at once easy and expres- 
sive of some amiable or interesting feeling, is beautiful, and is accord- 
ingly spoken of as beautiful : But when we add the term Graceful, we 
wish, I think, always to convey the idea of some additional quality, 
which is entitled to respect, and which is expressive of some conceived 
dignity or superiority in the mind of the person who exhibits it. 
Whenever, in the same manner, any attitude or gesture affects us, 
beside the emotion of Beauty, with the sense of respect or admiration 
for the individual in whose form it appears, I apprehend we use the 
term Graceful in addition to that of Beautiful, to express our sense of 
this superiority or dignity. The application of the same observation to 
the sublime, either in movement or position, is within the reach of 
every person's inquiry • and I apprehend, that the experience of every 
one will teach him, that the sublime of this kind may often exist with- 
out grace ; and that, when grace is perceived, it is always felt as an 
additional quality, and as expressive of something in the character of 
the person which excites veneration, or astonishment, or respect. — 
Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste. Chap, vi., sect. ^. 



219.— GEORGE THE THIRD AT WINDSOR AFTER MARGARET 
NICHOLSON'S ATTEMPT ON HIS LIFE. 

[D'Arblay, 1752 — 1840. 

[Frances Burney, better known as Madame D'Arblay, born at Lynn Regis, June 13, 
1752, was the second daughter of Dr. Burney, author of the "History of Music." 
At the age often she began to practice composition, from which time, according to her 
own account, she produced a number of " elegies, odes, plays, songs, stories, farces, 
many tragedies and epic poems." These early compositions were destroyed, and her 
first work, " Evelina; or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World," was 

L L 



Si4 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [D'Arblay. 

published in 1778, and was followed by "Cecilia; or, the Memoirs of an 
Heiress," in 1782. Miss Burney was appointed second keeper of the robes to 
Queen Charlotte in July, 1786, and was married in July, 1793, to M. Alexandre 
Piochard D'Arblay, a French artillerj' officer. Her tragedy of " Edwy and Elgiva," 
brought out at Drury' Lane in 1795, proved a failure. "Camilla; or, a Picture of 
Youth," another novel, appeared in 1796, and was followed by other works. Madame 
D'Arblay died at Bath, Jan. 6, 1840. Five volumes of her Diarj'- and Letters, 
edited by her niece, appeared in 1842, and the sixth and seventh volumes in 1846. 
This work has been frequently reprinted. In the " Edinburgh RevieV for January, 
1843, ^ critic (Lord Macaulay) says of the authoress, "Her appearance is an im- 
portant epoch in our literary histor}% ' Evelina' was the first tale written by a 
wcman, and purporting to be a picture of life and manners, that lived or deserved 
to live . . . Miss Burney did for the English novel what Jeremy Collier did for the 
English drama; and she did it in a better way. She first showed thata tale might be 
written in which both the fashionable and the vulgar life of London might be ex- 
hibited with great force, and with broad comic humour, and which yet should not 
contain a single line inconsistent with rigid morality, or even with virgin delicacy. 
She took away the reproach which lay on a most useful and delightful species of 
composition. She vindicated the right of her sex to an equal share in a fair and 
noble province of letters. Several accomplished women have followed in her track."] 

For this evening (Wednesday, Aug. 2, 1786), however, an opportunity 
soon offered. The Duchess of Ancaster, who, with her daughter. 
Lady Charlotte Bertie, was just come on a visit to the Queen, called 
in upon Mrs. Schwellenberg 5 and, after an extremely civil salutation 
and introduction to me, and joy-wishing on my appointment, she 
shewed so much agitation, and seemed so desirous to speak of something 
important to Mrs. Schwellenberg, that I found it perfectly easy to 
make my apology for retiring. 

I went into my own room for my cloak, and, as usual, found 
Madame La Fite just w^aiting for me. She was all emotion, — she 
seized my hand, — '" Have you heard ?— moji Dieu .' — O le hon Roi ! 
Miss Burney ! — what an horreur !"' — 

I was very much startled, but soon ceased to wonder at her pertur- 
bation J — she had been in the room with the Princess Elizabeth, and 
there heard, from Miss Goldsworthy, that an attempt had just been 
made upon the life of the King ! 

I was almost petrified with horror at the intelligence. If this King 
is not safe, — good, pious, beneficent as he is, — if his life is in danger, 
from his own subjects, what is to guard the Throne ? and which way 
is a monarch to be secure ! 

Mrs. Goldsworthy had taken every possible precaution so to tell the 
matter to the Princess Elizabeth as least to alarm her, lest it might 
occasion a return of her spasms ; but, fortunately, she cried so exceed- 
ingly that it was hoped the vent of her tears would save her from those 
terrible convulsions. 

Madame La Fite had heard of the attempt only, not the particulars 3 
but I was afterwards informed of them in tlie most interesting manner. 



D'Arblay.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 515 

— namely, how they were related to the Queen. And as the news- 
papers will have told you all else, I shall only and briefly tell that. 

No information arrived here of the matter before his Majesty's 
return, at the usual hour in the afternoon, from the levee. The Spanish 
Minister had hurried off instantly to Windsor, and was in waiting, at 
Lady Charlotte Finch's, to be ready to assure her Majesty of the 
King's safety, in case any report anticipated his return. 

The Queen had the two eldest Princesses, the Duchess of Ancaster, 
and Lady Charlotte Bertie with her when the King came in. He 
hastened up to her, with a countenance of striking vivacity, and said, 
*' Here I am ! — safe and well, — as you see ! — but I have very nar- 
rowly escaped being stabbed !" 

His own conscious safety, and the pleasure he felt in thus personally 
shewing it to the Queen, made him not aware of the effect of so abrupt 
a communication. The Queen was seized with a consternation that at 
first almost stupefied her, and, after a most painful silence, the first 
words she could articulate were, in looking round at the Duchess and 
Lady Charlotte, who had both burst into tears, — " I envy you ! — I 
can't cry !" 

The two Princesses were for a little while in the same state ; but 
the tears of the Duchess proved infectious, and they then wept even 
with violence. 

The King, with the gayest good-humour, did his utmost to comfort 
them ; and then gave a relation of the affair, with a calmness and un- 
concern that, had any one but himself been his hero, would have been 
regarded as totally unfeeling. 

You may have heard it wrong ; I will concisely tell it right. His 
carriage had just stopped at the garden-door at St. James's, and he had 
just alighted from it, when a decently-dressed woman, who had been 
waiting for him some time, approached him with a petition. It was 
rolled up, and had the usual superscription — '' For the King's Most Ex- 
cellent Majesty." She presented it with her right hand 3 and, at the 
same moment that the King bent forward to take it, she drew from it, 
with her left hand, a knife, with which she aimed straight at his heart ! 

The fortunate awkwardness of taking the instrument with the left 
hand made her design perceived before it could be executed ; — the 
King started back, scarce believing the testimony of his own eyes ; and 
the woman made a second thrust, which just touched his waistcoat 
before he had time to prevent her 3 — and at that moment one of the 
attendants, seeing her horrible intent, wrenched the knife from her 
hand. 

" Has she cut my waistcoat ?" cried he, in telling it, — '' Look ! for 
I have had no time to examine." 

L L 2 



5i6 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Guizot. 

Thank heaven, however, the poor vt^retch had not gone quite so far. 
" Though nothing," added the King, in giving his relation, " could 
have been sooner done, for there was nothing for her to go through 
but a thin linen, and fat." 

While the guards and his own people now surrounded the King, 
the assassin was seized by the populace, who were tearing her away, 
no doubt to fall the instant sacrifice of her murtherous purpose, when 
the King, the only calm and moderate person then present, called aloud 
to the mob, '^ The poor creature is mad ! — -Do not hurt her ! She has 
not hurt me!" 

He then came forward, and shewed himself to all the people, de- 
claring he was perfectly safe and unhurt ; and then gave positive 
orders that the woman should be taken care of, and went into the 
palace, and had his levee. 

There is something in the whole of this behaviour upon this occasion 
that strikes me as proof indisputable of a true and noble courage : for 
in a moment so extraordinary — an attack, in this country, unheard of 
before — to settle so instantly that it was the effect of insanity, to feel 
no apprehension of private plot or latent conspiracy — to stay out, fear- 
lessly, among his people, and so benevolently to see himself to the 
safety of one who had raised her arm against his life, — these little 
traits, all impulsive, and therefore to be trusted, have given me an 
impression of respect and reverence that I can never forget, and never 
think of but with fresh admiration. 

If that love of prerogative, so falsely assigned, were true, what an 
opportunity was here offered to exert it ! Had he instantly taken 
refuge in his palace, ordered out all his guards, stopped every avenue 
to St. James's, and issued his commands that every individual present 
at this scene should be secured and examined, — who would have dared 
murmur, or even blame such measures ? 

The insanity of the woman has now fully been proved ; but that 
noble confidence which gave that instant excuse for her was then all 
his own. — Diary and Letters. Vol. iii. Part ii. 1786. 

220.— CHARACTER OF OLIVER CROMWELL. 

[GuizoT, 1787. 
[FRAN901S Pierre Guillaume Gujzot, distinguished in France as a statesman and 
historian, was born at Ntmes, October 4, 1787, and was educated at Geneva. Having 
taken up his residence at Paris, with a view of practising as a barrister, he applied him- 
self to literature, and in 18 12 married Mademoiselle Pauline de Meulan, who died 
Aug. I, 1827. He married again in 1828, and his second wife died in 1833. His first 
work, an edition of Gerard's French Synonyms, published in 1809, was followed by his 
" Lives of the French Poets," and a translation of Gibbon. About the same time he 
was appointed professor of Modern History in the Sorbonne, from which he was, in 



Guizot.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 517 

1823, suspended, on account of his attacks upon M. Villele's ministry. In his retire- 
ment he devoted himself to literary pursuits, and wrote, among other works, 
"Memoirs relative to the English Revolution," and a "History of the English Revo- 
lution of 1640," in addition to contributing to periodicals and newspapers. He was 
restored to his lectureship in 1828, delivered a series of lectures on the "History of 
Civilization in Europe," afterwards published, and was elected to the Chamber of 
Deputies in 1830. Soon after the accession of Louis Philippe he became Minister of 
the Interior, filled other positions in the Ministry, and during the last years of that 
monarch's reign was the virtual ruler of France. After the fall of his ministry in the 
Revolution of February, 1848, he retired from public life. In addition to those already 
mentioned, he has written numerous works, most of which have been translated into 
English. The best known are " History of Oliver Cromwell and the English Com- 
monwealth from the Execution of Charles I. to the death of Cromwell ;" " Richard 
Cromwell, and the Dawn of the Restoration;" an Inquiry into "the Causes of the 
Success of the English Revolution;" "Corneille and his Times;" " Shakespeare and 
his Times ;" and several volumes of memoirs.] 

Cromwell died in the plenitude of his power and greatness. He 
had succeeded beyond all expectation, far more than any other of 
those men has succeeded, who, by their genius, have raised themselves^ 
as he had done, to supreme authority ; for he had attempted and accom- 
plished, with equal success, the most opposite designs. During 
eighteen years that he had been an ever-victorious actor on the world's 
stage, he had alternately sown disorder and established order, effected 
and punished revolution, overthrown and restored government, in his 
country. At every moment, under all circumstances, he had distin- 
guished with admirable sagacity the dominant interests and passions of 
the time, so as to make them the instruments of his own rule, — care- 
less whether he belied his antecedent conduct, so long as he triumphed 
in concert with the popular instinct, and explaining the inconsistencies 
of his conduct by the ascendant unity of his power. He is, perhaps, 
the only example which history affords of one man having governed 
the most opposite events, and proved sufficient for the most various 
destinies. And in the course of his violent and chanceful career, 
incessantly exposed to all kinds of enemies and conspiracies, Cromwell 
experienced this crowning favour of fortune, that his life was never 
actually attacked j the sovereign against whom Killing had been 
declared to be No Murder, never found himself face to face with an 
assassin. The world has never known another example of success at 
once so constant and so various, or of fortune so invariably favourable, 
in the midst of such manifold conflicts and perils. 

Yet Cromwell's death-bed was clouded with gloom. He was 
unwilling not only to die, but also, and most of all, to die without 
having attained his real and final object. However great his egotism 
may have been, his soul was too great to rest satisfied with the highest 
fortune, if it were merely personal, and, like himself, of ephemeral 



Si8 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[PfeifFer. 



earthly duration. Weary of the ruin he had caused, it was his 
cherished wish to restore to his country a regular and stable govern- 
ment — the only government which was suited to its wants, a monarchy 
under the control of Parliament. And at the same time, with an 
ambition which extended beyond the grave, under the influence of 
that thirst for permanence which is the stamp of true greatness, he 
aspired to leave his name and race in possession of the throne. He 
failed in both designs : his crimes had raised up obstacles against him, 
which neither his prudent genius nor his persevering will could sur- 
mount 3 and though covered, as far as he was himself concerned, with 
power and glory, he died with his dearest hopes frustrated, and leaving 
behind him, as his successors, the two enemies whom he had so 
ardently combated — anarchy and the Stuarts. 

God does not grant to those great men, who have laid the foundations 
of their greatness amidst disorder and revolution, the power of regulating 
at their pleasure, and for succeeding ages, the government of nations. — 
History of Oliver Cromwell and the English Commonwealth, ^c. 
Vol. ii. Book viii. 

221.— ATTEMPT AT MURDER BY A MAROON NEGRO. 

[Madame Pfeiffer, 1795 — 1858. 

[Ida Laura Reyer, born at Vienna, Oct. 14, 1797, was married May i, 1820, to 
Dr. Pfeiffer, an advocate, at Lemberg. From an early age she evinced a strong desire 
to travel. Various circumstances prevented the gratification of this inclination until, 
after the death of her husband and the establishment in life of her two sons, she found 
the desired opportunity, and started on her first journey through Turkey, Egypt, and 
the Holy Land, in 1842. An account of this, under the title "Journey of a Viennese 
Lady to the Holy Land," was published in 1843. Having travelled in other direc- 
tions, she started from Vienna, May i, 1846, at the age of fifty-one, on her first tour 
round the world, which she accomplished, after undergoing numerous adventures, 
arriving at Vienna Nov. 4, 1848. An account of this tour — "A Woman's Journey 
round the World " — appeared at Vienna in 1850, and was translated into English, 
and published in this country. Madame Pfeiffer visited England in 1851, arrived in 
Capetown Aug. 1 1, visited Borneo, Java, and Sumatra, and, after other wanderings, 
landed at San Francisco Sep. 27, 1853; proceeded thence to South America, 
crossed the Cordilleras, traversed the greater part of North America, and landed at 
Liverpool Nov. 21, 1854; returning to Vienna in May. An account of this tour, 
under the title " My Second Journey round the World," appeared at Vienna in 1856. 
She set out upon her last journey May 21, 1856; visited Madagascar, the Mauritius, 
and other places. Suffering from illness, she reached Vienna in September, 1858, 
where she died, Oct. 28. In the course of her wanderings she is said to have traversed 
about 150,000 miles by sea, and 20,000 by land.] 

From Porto d'Estrella to Petropolis, the distance is seven leagues. 

This portion of the journey is generally performed upon mules, the 

charge for which is four milreis (8s. 8d.) each, but as we* had been 

* Count Berchthold was a fellow-traveller with Madame Pfeiffer. The incident 
occurred Sep. 27, 1846. 



PfeiflFer.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 519 

told in Rio Janeiro that the road afforded a beautiful walk, parts of it 
traversing splendid woods, and that it was besides much frequented, 
and perfectly safe, being the great means of communication with 
Minas Geraes, we determined to go on foot, and that the more 
willingly, as the Count wished to botanize, and I to collect insects. 
The first eight miles lay through a broad valley, covered with thick 
brambles and young trees, and surrounded with lofty mountains. 
The wild pine-apples at the side of the road presented a most beautiful 
appearance 3 they were not quite ripe, and were tinged with the most 
delicate red. Unfortunately, they are far from being as agreeable to 
the taste as they are to the sight, and consequently are very seldom 
gathered. I was greatly amused with the humming-birds, of which 
I saw a considerable number of the smallest species. Nothing can be 
more graceful and delicate than these little creatures. They obtain 
their food from the calyx of the flowers, round which they flutter like 
butterflies, and indeed are very often mistaken for them in their rapid 
flight. It is very seldom that they are seen on a branch or twig in a 
state of repose. After passing through the valley, we reached the 
Serra, as the Brazilians term the summit of each mountain that they 
cross 3 the present one was 3000 feet high. A broad paved road, 
traversing virgin forests, runs up the side of the mountain. 
•^ * •* * * ■x- * 

Frequent truppas,* driven by negroes, as well as a number of pedes- 
trians we met, eased our minds of every fear, and prevented us from 
regarding it as at all remarkable that we were being continually 
followed by a negro. As, however, we arrived at a somewhat lonely 
spot, he sprang suddenly forward, holding in one hand a long knife 
and in the other a lasso,t rushed upon us, and gave us to understand, 
more by gestures than words, that he intended to murder, and then 
drag us into the forest. 

We had no arms, as we had been told that the road was perfectly 
safe, and the only weapons of defence we possessed were our parasols, 
if I except a clasp knife, which I instantly drew out of my pocket and 
opened, fully determined to sell my life as dearly as possible. We 
parried our adversary's blows as long as we could with our parasols, 
but these lasted but a short time 3 besides, he caught hold of mine, 
which, as we were struggling for it, broke short ofl^ leaving only a 



* Truppas is a term used to designate ten mules driven by a negro ; in most instances 
a number of truppas are joined together, and often make up teams or caravans of 100 
or 200 mules. 

f A cord with a noose at the end; the native inhabitants of South America use it 
so skilfully that they catch the most savage animals with it. 



ffli 



m 



520 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pfeifier. 

piece of the handle in my hand. In the struggle, however, he dropped 
his knife, which rolled a few steps from him 5 I instantly made a dash, 
and thought I had got it, when he, more quick than 1, thrust me away 
with his feet and hands, and once more obtained possession of it. He 
waved it furiously over my head, and dealt me two wounds, a thrust 
and a deep gash, both in the upper part of the left arm j I thought I 
was lost, and despair alone gave me the courage to use my own knife. 
I made a thrust at his breast ; this he warded off, and 1 only succeeded 
in wounding him severely in the hand. The Count sprang forward, 
and seized the fellow from behind, and thus afforded me an oppor- 
tunity of raising myself from the ground. The whole affair had not 
taken more than a few seconds. The negro's fury was now roused to 
its highest pitch by the wounds he had received : he gnashed his teeth 
at us like a wild beast, and flourished his knife with frightful rapidity. 
The Count, in his turn, had received a cut right across the hand, and 
we had been irrevocably lost, had not Providence sent us assistance. 
We heard the tramp of horses' hoofs upon the road, upon which the 
negro instantly left us, and sprang into the wood. Immediately 
afterwards two horsemen turned a corner of the road, and we hurried 
towards them j our wounds, which were bleeding freely, and the way 
in which our parasols were hacked, soon made them understand the 
state of affairs. They asked us which direction the fugitive had taken, 
and, springing from their horses, hurried after him j their efforts, how- 
ever, would have been fruitless, if two negroes, who were coming 
from the opposite side, had not helped them. As it was, the fellow 
was soon captured. He was pinioned, and, as he would not walk, 
severely beaten, most of the blows being dealt upon the head, so that 
I feared the poor wretch's skull would be broken. In spite of this he 
never moved a muscle, and lay, as if insensible to feeling, upon the 
ground. The two other negroes were obliged to seize hold of him, 
when he endeavoured to bite every one within his reach, like a wild 
beast, and carry him to the nearest house. Our preservers, as well as 
the Count and myself, accompanied them. We then had our wounds 
dressed, and afterwards continued our journey ; not, it is true, entirely 
devoid of fear, especially when we met one or more negroes, but with- 
out any further mishap, and with a continually increasing admiration 
of the beautiful scenery. * * -x- * -x- * Jn spite of the danger 
we had incurred in coming, we returned to Porto d'Estrella on foot, 
went on board a bark, sailed all night, and arrived safely in Rio 
Janeiro the next morning. Every one, both in Petropolis and the 
capital, was so astonished at the manner in which our lives had been 
attempted, that, if we had not been able to show our wounds, we 
should never have been believed. The fellow was at first thought to 



Ascham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. * 521 

have been drunk or insane, and it was not till later that we learned 
the real motives of his conduct. He had some time previously been 
punished bv his master for an offence, and, on meeting us in the wood, 
he, no doubt, thought that it was a good opportunity of satisfying, 
with impunity, his hatred against the whites. — A Womans Journey 
Round the World. Chap. iii. 



222.— LEARNING A BETTER TEACHER THAN EXPERIENCE. 

[Ascham, 1515 — 1568. 

[Roger Ascham, born at Kirby Wiske, or Kirby Wicke, near Northallerton, in 1515, 
was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge, took his degree Feb. 28, 1534, became 
fellow of his College, and was chosen University Orator in 1544. His "Toxophilus, 
or the School of Shooting," appeared in 1544; and he was appointed tutor to Lady, 
afterwards Queen, Elizabeth in 1548. On her accession to the throne, Ascham was 
continually engaged reading Greek and Latin authors with the Queen. He married 
in 1544, held several appointments, and died Dec. 30, 1568. When Queen Elizabeth 
heard of his death she said, — " She would rather have thrown ten thousand pounds 
into the sea than have lost her Ascham." His celebrated work, " The Schoolmaster," 
which was published by his widow, did not appear until 1570. His English works 
were first published in a collected form in 1761, and were edited with notes by the 
Rev. J. Upton. The Life prefixed to this edition is, on the authority of Boswell, 
attributed to Dr. Johnson. Ascham, who has been termed the " Father of English 
Prose," designed, says Dr. Johnson, "to give an example of diction more natural 
and more truly English than was used by the common writers of that age, whom 
he censures for mingling exotic terms with their native language, and of whom he 
complains, that they were made authors, not by skill or education, but by arrogance 
and temerity."] 

Some others, having better nature but less wit (for ill commonly have 
over much wit), do not utterly dispraise learning, but they say, that 
without learning common experience, knowledge of all fashions, and 
haunting all companies, shall work in youth both wisdom and ability 
to execute any weighty affair. Surely long experience doth profit 
much, but most, and almost only to him (if we mean honest affairs) 
that is diligently before instructed with precepts of well doing. For 
good precepts of learning be the eyes of the mind, to look wisely before 
a man, which way to go right, and which not. 

Learning teacheth more in one year than experience in twenty 5 and 
learning teacheth safely, when experience maketh more miserable, than 
wise. He hazardeth sore that waxeth wise by experience. An un- 
happy master is he that is made cunning by many shipwrecks 5 a 
miserable merchant, that is neither rich nor wise but after some bank- 
routs. It is costly wisdom that is bought by experience. We know 
by experience itself, that it is a marvellous pain to find out but a short 
way by long wandering. And surely, he that would prove wise by 




522 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ascham. 

experience^, he may be witty indeed, but even like a swift runner, that 
runneth fast out of the way, and upon the night, he knoweth not 
whither. And verily they be fewest in number that be happy or wise 
by unlearned experience. And look well upon the former life of those 
few, whether your example be old or young, who without learning 
have gathered by long experience a little wisdom and some happiness ; 
and when you do consider what mischief they have committed, what 
dangers they have escaped, (and yet twenty for one do perish in the 
adventure,) then think well with yourself, whether you would that 
your own son should come to wisdom and happiness by the way of 
such experience or no. 

It is a notable tale, that old Sir Roger Chamloe, sometime chief 
justice, would cell of himself. When he was ancient in inn of court, 
certain young gentlemen were brought before him to be corrected for 
certain misorders : and one of the Ivistiest said, '' Sir, we be young 
gentlemen ; and wise men before us have proved all fashions, and yet 
those have done full well." This they said, because it was well known 
that Sir Roger had been a goodfellow* in his youth. But he answered 
them very wisely: "Indeed," saith he, "^in youth I was, as you are 
now ; and I had twelve fellows like unto myself, but not one of them 
came to a good end. And therefore follow not my example in youth, 
but follow my counsel in age, if ever ye think to come to this place, 
or to these years that I am come unto ; lest you meet either with 
poverty or Tyburn in the way." 

Thus experience of all fashions in youth, being in proof always 
dangerous, in issue seldom lucky, is a way indeed to overmuch know- 
ledge, yet used commonly of such men, which be either carried by 
some curious affection of mind, or driven by some hard necessity of 
life, to hazard the trial of over-many perilous adventures. 

Erasmus, the honour of learning of all our time, said wisely, " That 
experience is the common schoolhouse of fools and ill men. Men of 
wit and honesty be otherwise instructed. For there be, that keep them 
out of fire, and yet was never burned ; that beware of water, and yet 
was never nigh drownings that hate harlots, and was never at the 
stews J that abhor falsehood, and never broke promise themselves." 

But will you see a fit similitude of this adventured experience. A 
father that doth let loose his son to all experiences, is most like a fond 
hunter that letteth slip a whelp to the whole herd ; twenty to one he 
shall fall upon a rascal, and let go the fair game. Men that hunt so, 
be either ignorant persons, privy stealers, or night-walkers. 



* At one time this was a law term for a thief. Ascham uses it to denote a wild 
reckless youth. 



Massinger.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 523 

Learning therefore, ye wise fathers, and good bringing up, and not 
blind and dangerous experience, is the next and readiest way that must 
lead your children, first to wisdom, and then to worthiness, if ever ye 
purpose they shall come there. 

And to say all in short, though I lack authority to give counsel, yet I 
lack not good will to wish, that the youth in England, especially 
gentlemen, and mainly nobility, should be by good bringing up so 
grounded in judgement of learning, so founded in love of honesty, as 
when they should be called forth to the execution of great affairs, in 
service of their prince and country, they might be able to use, and to 
order all experiences, were they good, were they bad, and that 
according to the square, rule, and line, of wisdom, learning, and 
virtue. — The Schoolmaster. Book i. 



223.— THE ACTOR'S DEFENCE, 

[Massinger, 1584 — 1640. 
[Philip Massinger, son of one of the Earl of Pembroke's retainers, born at Salisbury 
in 1584, entered at St. Alban's Hall, Oxford, in 1602. He quitted the Uni- 
versity, and repaired to London, where he commenced writing for the theatres. His 
first play, " The Virgin Martyr," was published in 1622. It was followed by numerous 
dramatic pieces, the best known being " The Roman Actor," which was licensed Oct. 
II, 1626; " The Fatal Dowry," published in 1632; "The City Madam," licensed 
May 25, 1632; and " A New Way to Pay Old Debts," published in 1 633. Several col- 
lected editions of Massinger's works have been published. He was found dead in his 
bed at his house, Bankside, Southwark, March 17, 1640, and the parish register bears 
the following entry: "March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Massinger, a stranger."] 

Aretinus. Cite Paris, the tragedian. 

Paris. Here. 

Aretinus. Stand forth. 

In thee, as being the chief of thy profession, 
I do accuse the quality of treason. 
As libellers against the State and Caesar. 

Paris. Mere accusations are not proofs, my lord 3 
In what are we delinquents ? 

Aretinus. You are they 

That search into the secrets of the time. 
And, under feigned names, on the stage, present 
Actions not to be touched at ; and traduce 
Persons of rank and quality of both sexes. 
And, with satirical and bitter jests. 
Make even the senators ridiculous 
To the plebeians. 



yuBii 

IHIIil 



524 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Massinger. 



Paris. If I free not myself. 

And, in myself, the rest of my profession. 
From these false imputations, and prove 
That they make that a libel which the poet 
Writ for a comedy, so acted too j 
It is but justice that we undergo 
The heaviest censure. 

Aretinus. Are you on the stage. 

You talk so boldly ? 

Paris. The whole world being one. 

This place is not exempted 3 and I am 
So confident in the justice of our cause. 
That I could wish Caesar, in whose great name 
All kings are comprehended, sat as judge. 
To hear our plea, and then determine of us. — 
T, to express a man sold to his lusts. 
Wasting the treasure of his time and fortunes 
In wanton dalliance, and to what sad end 
A wretch that's so given over does arrive at ; 
Deterring careless youth, by his example. 
From such licentious courses, can deserve reproof j 
Why are not all your golden principles. 
Writ down by grave philosophers to instruct us 
To choose fair virtue for our guide, not pleasure. 
Condemned unto the fire ? 

Sura. There's spirit in this. 

Paris. Or if desire of honour was the base 
On which the building of the Roman empire 
Was raised up to this height j if, to inflame 
The noble youth with an ambitious heat 
T' endure the frosts of danger, nay, of death. 
To be thought worthy the triumphal wreath 
By glorious undertakings, may deserve 
Reward, or favour, from the commonwealth 5 
Actors may put in for as large a share 
As all the sects of the philosophers : 
They with cold precepts (perhaps seldom read) 
Deliver, what an honourable thing 
The active virtue is : but does that fire 
The blood, or swell the veins with emulation. 
To be both good and great, equal to that 
Which is presented on our theatres ? 
Let a good actor, in a lofty scene. 



Massinger.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 525 

Shew great Alcides, honoured in the sweat 
Of his tweh^e labours 3 or a bold Camillus, 
Forbidding Rome to be redeemed with gold 
From the insulting Gauls 3 or Scipio, 
After his victories, imposing tribute 
On conquered Carthage : if done to the life. 
As if they saw their dangers, and their glories. 
And did partake with them in their rewards. 
All that have any spark of Roman in them. 
The slothful arts laid by, contend to be 
Like those they see presented. 

RusTicus. He has pat 

The consuls to their whisper. 

Paris. But, 'tis urged 

That we corrupt youth, and traduce superiors. 
When do we bring- a vice upon the stage. 
That does go otf unpunished ? Do we teach. 
By the success of wicked undertakings. 
Others to tread in tlieir forbidden steps ? 
"We shew no arts of Lydian panderism, 
Corinthian poisons, Persian flatteries. 
But mulcted so in the conclusion, that 
Even those spectators that were so inclined. 
Go home changed men. And, for traducing such 
That are above us, publishing to the world 
Their secret crimes, we are as innocent 
As such as are born dumb. When we present 
An heir, that does conspire against the hfe 
Of his dear parent, numbering every hour 
He lives, as tedious to him 3 if there be. 
Among the auditors, one whose conscience tells him 
He is of the same mould, — We Cannot Help It. 
Or, bringing on the stage a loose adulteress. 
That does maintain the riotous expense 
Of him that feeds her greedy lust, yet suffers 
The lawful pledges of a former bed 
To starve the while for hunger 3 if a matron. 
However great in fortune, birth, or titles. 
Guilty of such a foul unnatural sin 
Cry out, 'Tis writ for me, — We Cannot Help It. 
Or, when a covetous man's expressed, whose wealth 
Arithmetic cannot number, and whose lordships 
A falcon in one day cannot tiy over 3 



526 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ridley 

Yet he so sordid in his mind, so griping, 

As not to afford himself the necessaries 

To maintain life ; if a patrician, 

(Though honoured with a consulship,) find himself 

Touched to the quick in this, — We Cannot Help It. 

Or, when we shew a judge that is corrupt. 

And will give up his sentence, as he favours 

The person, not the cause ; saving the guilty. 

If of his faction, and as oft condemning 

The innocent, out of particular spleen 5 

If any in this reverend assembly. 

Nay, even yourself, my lord, that are the image 

Of absent Caesar, feel something in your bosom 

That puts you in remembrance of things past. 

Or things intended, — 'Tis Not In Us To Help It. 

I have said, my lord : and now, as you find cause. 

Or censure us, or free us with applause. 

The Roman Actor. Act I. Scene iii. 



224.— EXAMPLES OF GOD'S READY HELP IN EXTREME PERILS. 

[Ridley, circ. 1505— 1555. 
[Nicholas Ridley was born in the county of Northumberland, near the Scottish 
border, early in the sixteenth century, but the exact date has not been preserved. 
He was educated at Newcastle-on-Tyne and Pembroke College, Cambridge, of which 
he was elected Fellow in 1524, went to Paris and studied at the Sorbonne in 1527, 
returned to England in 1530, was chaplain to the University, and public orator in 
1534, chaplain to Archbishop Cranmer in 1537, Master of Pembroke, D.D. and 
Chaplain to Henry VIII. fn 1540, Prebendary of Canterbury in 1541, and of West- 
minster in 1545, Bishop of Rochester in i547> ^nd was translated to London in 
1550. He was nominated for the bishopric of Durham in 1553, but soon after the 
accession of Mary was committed to the Tower, and was sent to Oxford, where he 
held numerous disputations, and one in particular of which a record remains, 
Tuesday, April 16, 1555. He was condemned as a heretic Tuesday, Oct. i, 1555, 
degraded, Tuesday, Oct. 15, and suffered at the stake with Bishop Latimer, 
Wednesday,* Oct. 16. Foxe ("Acts and Monuments" Edit. 1838, Vol. VII., 
p. 407,) says, "Every holiday and Sunday he pleached in some one place or 
" other, except he were otherwise lettedf by weighty affairs and business, to 
"whose sermons the people resorted, swarming about him like bees, and covet- 
" ing the sweet flowers and wholesome juice of the fruitful doctrine, which he did 
" not only preach, but shewed the same by his life, as a glittering lanthorn to the eyes 
"andsenses of the blind, in such pure order and chastity of life (declining from all evil 



* See page 197. 

t Letted, i.e., prevented or hindered. 

" What let us then the great Jerusalem 
With valiant squadrons round about to hem." — 

Fairfax's "Tasso," i. 27. 



Ridley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 527 



"desires and concupiscences), that even his very enemies could not reprove him in 
" any one jot thereof. Besides this, he was passingly w^ell learned, his memory was 
" great, and he of such reading withal, that of right he deserved to be comparable to 
" the best of this our age, as can testify as well divers his notable works, pithy 
" sermons, and sundry his disputations in both the universities, as also his very 
"adversaries, all which will say no less themselves."] 

Of God's gracious aid in extreme perils toward them that put their 
trust in him, all Scripture is fullj both old and new. What dangers 
were the patriarchs often brought into, as Abraham, Isaac, and 
Jacob, but of all other Joseph ; and how mercifully were they delivered 
again ! Tn what perils was Moses when he was fain to fly for the 
safeguard of his life ! And when was he sent again to deliver the 
Israelites from the servile bondage ? Not before they were brought 
into extreme misery. And when did the Lord mightily deliver his 
people from Pharaoh's sword ? Not before they were brought in such 
straits, that they were so compassed on every side (the main sea on the 
one side, and the main host on the other), that they could look for 
none other, (yea, what did they else indeed look for then ?) but either 
to have been drowned in the sea, or else to have fallen on the edge of 
Pharaoh his^ sword. Those judges which wrought most wonderful 
tilings in the delivery of the people, were ever given when the people 
were brought to most misery before, as Othoniel, Aioth,t Sangar, 
Gedeon, Jephtha, Samson. And so was Saul endued with strength 
and boldness from above, against the Ammonites, Philistines, and 
Amalechites, for the defence of the people of God. David likewise 
felt God's help most sensibly ever in his extreme persecutions. What 
shall I speak of the Prophets of God, whom God suffered so oft to be 
brought into extreme perils, and so mightily delivered them again j as 
Helias, Hieremy, Daniel, Micheas, and Jonas, and many other, whom 
it were but too long to rehearse and set out at large ? And did the 
Lord use his servants otherwise in the new law after Christ's incarna- 
tion ? Read the Acts of the Apostles, and you shall see, no. Were 
not the Apostles cast into prison, and brought out by the mighty hand 
of God ? Did not the angel deliver Peter out of the strong prison, and 
bring him out by the iron gates of the city, and set him free ? And 
when, I pray you ? Even the same night before Herod appointed to 
have brought him in judgment for to have slain him, as he had a little 
before killed James, the brother of John. Paul and Silas, when after 
they had been sore scourged, and w^ere put into the inner prison, and 
there were laid fast in' the stocks ; I pray you, what appearance was 
there that the magistrates should be glad to come the next day them- 



* The old form of the possessive case. t Ehud. 



;28 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Ridley. 




selves to them, to desire them to be content, and to depart in peace ? 
Who provided for Paul, that he should be safely conducted out of all 
danger, and brought to Felix, the Emperor's deputy, whenas both the 
high priests, the pharisees, and rulers of the Jews had conspired to 
require judgment of death against him, he being fast in prison, and also 
more than forty men had sworn each one to other, that they would 
never eat nor drink until they had slain Paul ! A. thing wonderful, 
that no reason could have invented, or man could have looked for : 
God provided Paul his own sister's son, a young man, that disappointed 
that conspiracy and all their former conjuration. The manner how 
the thing came to pass, thou may est read in the twenty- third of the 
Acts ; I will not be tedious unto thee here with the rehearsal thereof. 

Now, to descend from the Apostles to the martyrs that followed 
next in Christ's church, and in them likewise to declare how gracious 
our good God ever hath been to work wonderfully with them which 
in his cause have been in extreme perils, it were a matter enough to 
write a long book. I will here name but one man and one woman, 
that is, Athanasius,"* the great clerk and godly man, stoutly standing in 
Christ's cause against the Arians ; and that holy woman, Blandina, 
standing so constantly in all extreme pains, in the simple confession of 
Christ. If ihou wilt have examples of more, look and thou shalt have 
both these and a hundred more in Ecciesiastlca Historia of Eusebius,t 
and in Tripartita Historia.X 

But for all these examples, both of holy Scripture and of other 
histories, I fear me the weak man of God, encumbered with the 
frailty and infirmity of the flesh, will have now and then such thoughts 
and qualms (as they call them) to run over his heart, and to think thus : 
"All these things which are rehearsed out of the Scripture, I believe 
to be true, and of the rest truly I do think well, and can believe them 
also to be true : but all these we must needs grant were special miracles 
of God, which now in our days are ceased, we see, and to require them 
at God's hands, were it not to tempt God ?" 

Well-beloved brother, I grant such were great wonderful works of 
God, and we have not seen many of such miracles in our time, either 
for that our sight is not clear (for truly God worketh with his his part 
in all times), or else because we have not the like faith of them for 
whose cause God wrought such things, or because, after that he had 
set forth the truth of his doctrine by such miracles then sufficiently, 
the time of so many miracles to be done was expired withal. Which 
of these is the most special cause of all other, or whether there be any 
other, God knoweth : I leave that to God. But know thou this, my 



* Lib. V. Cap. 1. 



f Lib. iv. V. vi. ix. 



Trip. Lib. v. 



Ridley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. . 529 

well-beloved in God, that God's hand is as strong as ever it was 3 he 
may do what his gracioQs pleasure is, and he is as good and gracious 
as ever he was. Man changeth as the garment doth ; but God, our 
heavenly Father, is even the same now that he was, and shall be for 
evermore. 

The world without doubt (this I do believe, and therefore I say) 
draweth towards an end, and in all ages God hath had his own man- 
ner, after his secret and unsearchable wisdom, to use his elect ; some- 
times to deliver them, and to keep them safe 3 and sometimes to suffer 
them to drink of Christ's cup, that is, to feel the smart, and to feel of 
the whip. And though the flesh smarteth at the one, and feeleth ease 
in the other, is glad of the one, and sore vexed in the other ; yet the 
Lord is all one towards them in both, and loveth them no less when he 
suffereth them to be beaten, yea, and to be put to bodily death, than 
when he worketh wonders for their marvellous delivery. Nay, rather 
he doth more for them, when in anguish of the torments he standeth 
by them, and strengtheneth them in their faith, to suffer in the con- 
fession of the truth and his faith the bitter pangs of death, than when 
he openeth the prison-doors and letteth them go loose : for here he 
doth but respite them to another time, and leaveth them in danger to 
fall in like peril again 3 and there he maketh them perfect, to be 
without danger, pain, or peril, after that for evermore : but this his 
love towards them, howsoever the world doth judge of it, is all one, 
both when he delivereth and when he suffereth them to be put to 
death. He loved as well Peter and Paul, when (after they had, 
according to his blessed will, pleasure, and providence, finished their 
courses, and done their services appointed them by him here in preaching 
of his Gospel) the one was beheaded, and the other was hanged or 
crucified of the cruel tyrant Nero (as the ecclesiastical history saith), 
as when he sent the angel to bring Peter out of prison, and for Paul's 
delivery he made all the doors of the prison to fly wide open, and the 
foundation of the same like an earthquake to tremble and shake. 

Thinkest thou, O man of God, that Christ our Saviour had less 
affection to the first martyr, Stephen, because he suffered his enemies 
even at the first conflict, to stone him to death ? No, surely : nor 
James, John's brother, which was one of the three that Paul calleth 
primates or principals amongst the Apostles of Christ. He loved him 
never a whit the worse than he did the other, although he suffered 
Herod the tyrant's sword to cut off his head. Nay, doth not Daniel 
say,* speaking of the cruelty of Antichrist his time : "' And the learn'^d 
(he meaneth truly learned in God's law) shall teach many, and shall 



* Daniel xi. 
M M 



530 



THE EFERY-DJY BOOK 



[Goldsmith 



fall upon the sword, and in the flame (that is, shall be burnt in the 
flaming fire), and in captivity (that is, shall be in prison), and be spoiled 
and robbed of their goods for a long season." And after a little, 
in the same place of Daniel, it followeth : ** And of the learned there 
be, which shall fall or be overthrown, that they may be known, tried, 
chosen, and made white" — he meaneth be burnished and scoured 
anew, picked and chosen, and made fresh and lusty. If that then was 
foreseen for to be done to the godly learned, and for so gracious causes, 
let every one to whom any such thing by the will of God doth chance 
be merry in God and rejoice, for it is to God's glory and to his own ever- 
lasting wealth. Wherefore well is he that ever he was born, for whom 
thus graciously God hath provided, having grace of God, and strength 
of the Holy Ghost, to stand steadfastly in the height of the storm. 
Happy is he that ever he was born, whom God, his heavenly Father, 
hath vouchsafed to appoint to glorify him, and to edify his church, by 
the effiision of his blood. 

To die in Christ's cause is an high honour, to the which no man 
certainly shall or can aspire, but to whom God vouchsafeth that 
dignity ; for no man is allowed to presume for to take unto himself 
any office of honour, but he which is thereunto called of God. There- 
fore John saith well, speaking of them which have obtained the victory 
by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of his testimony, that 
they loved not their lives even iinto death. — A Piteous Lamentation of 
the Miserable Estate of the Church in England, in the Time of the Late 
Revolt from the Gospel. 1^66. 



225.— ON QUACK DOCTORS.* 

[Goldsmith, 1728 — 1774. 
[Oliver Goldsmith, son of a clergyman, born at Pallas, in Longford, Ireland, Nov. 
10, 1728, entered Trinity College, Dublin, June 11, 1745, and took his degree Feb. 
27, 1749. He went to Edinburgh to study medicine in 1752, proceeded to Leyden 
in 1754, and having remained there a year, set out on a tour through Europe, in 
which he suffered many privations. Indeed, he is supposed to refer to his own expe- 
rience in the "Vicar of Wakefield:" "Whenever I approached a peasant's house 
"towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes, and that provided me not 
"only a lodging, but sustenance for the next day." After wandering for some time 
he reached Padua, from which place he returned to England in Feb. 1756, on 
receiving news of the death of his uncle and benefactor, the Rev. Thomas Contarine. 
Having served as an usher in a school and an apothecary's assistant, he endeavoured 
to qualify himself as a physician, and at length became a writer for the booksellers. 
His chief works are "Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe," 
which appeared in April, 1759; "The Traveller," in 1764; " The Vicar of Wake- 
field," for which, through the intervention of Dr. Johnson, he obtained 60/., in 



* This Essay appeared in " The Citizen of the World," Letters xxiv. and Ixviii. 



} I i 



Goldsmith,] OF MODERX LITERATURE. 531 

1766; and "The Good Natured Man," produced in 1767. He published " The 
Eteserted Village'* and became Professor of Ancient History at the Ro\-al Aca- 
demj in 1770; wrote "She Stoops to Conquer," performed at Covent Garden in 
1773, and " History of the Earth and Animated Nature " in i 774, He contributed 
to various periodicals, andwrote several essays, and the celebrated " Chinese Letters,"' 
published in The Public Ledger, and republished as " The Citizen of the World; or. 
Letters from a Chinese Philosopher residing in London to his Friend in the East," 
in 1762. His improvidence, love of gambling, and indolent habits involved him in 
continual trouble. Dr. Johnson remained his firm friend till his death, which 
occurred April 4, 1774- Several collected editions of his works have been published. 
A biography, by Bishop Pacy, appeared in 1774, another by Prior in 1837, another 
by Forster in 1848.] 

Whatkter may be the merits of the English in other scieuces^ they 
seem pecoliarlv excellent in the art of healing. There is scarcely a 
disorder incident to humanity, against which our advertising doctors 
are not possessed with a most infallible antidote. The professors of 
other arts confess the inevitable intricacy of things : talk with doubt, 
and decide with hesitation : but doubting is entirely unknown in 
medicine 5 the advertising professors here delight in cases of dilScnlt}" : 
be the disorder never so desperate or radical, you will find numbers 
in every street, who, by levelUng a pill at the part aJiected, promise a 
certain cure without loss of time, knowledge of a bedtellow, or hin- 
drance of business. 

When I consider the assiduity of this profession, their benevolence 
amazes me. They not only, in general, give their medicines for half 
value, but use the most persuasive remonstrances to induce the sick to 
come and be cured. Sure there must be something strangely obsti- 
nate in an English patient, who refiises so much health upon such 
easy terms ! Does he take a pride in being bloated with a dropsy : 
Does he find pleasure in the alternations of an intermittent fever ? Or 
feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his gout, as he found pleasure 
in acquiring :r r He must, otherwise he would never reject such 
repeated aisur^ncei ci instant rehef. What can be more convincing 
than the manner in which the sick are invited to be well ? The 
doctor first begs the most earnest attention of the public to what he is 
going to propose j he solemnly affirms the pill was never found to 
want success j he produces a hst of those who have been rescued trom 
the grave by taking it. Yet, notwithstanding all this, there are many 
here who now and then think proper to be sick ; only sick did I say ? 
There are some who even think proper to die I Yes, by the head of 
Confucius, they die ; though they might have purchased the health- 
restoring specific for half-a-crown at every corner. 

I can never enough admire the sagacity of this country^ for the en- 
couragement given to the professors of this art ; with what indulgence 
does she foster up those of her own growth, and kindly cherish those 

M M 2 



532 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Goldsmith. 

that come from abroad ! Like a skilful gardener she invites them 
from every foreign climate to herself. Here every great exotic strikes 
root as soon as imported, and feels the genial beam of favour ; while 
the mighty metropohs, like one vast munificent dunghill, receives 
them indiscriminately to her breast, and supplies each with more than 
native nourishment. 

In other countries, the physician pretends to cure disorders in the 
lumpj the same doctor who combats the gout in the toe, shall pretend 
to prescribe for a pain in the head ; and he who at one time cures a 
consumption, shall at another give drugs for a dropsy. How absurd 
and ridiculous ! This is being a mere jack of all trades. Is the 
animal machine less complicated than a brass pin ? Not less than ten 
different hands are required to make a brass pin 3 and shall the body 
be set right by one single operator ? 

The English are sensible of the force of this reasoning ; they have 
therefore one doctor for the eyes, another for the toes ; they have their 
sciatica doctors, and inoculating doctors 3 they have one doctor who is 
modestly content with securing them from bugbites, and five hundred 
who prescribe for the bite of mad dogs. 

But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anecdotes of the great, 
however minute or trifling, I must present you, inadequate as my 
abilities are to the subject, with an account of one or two of those 
personages who lead in this honourable profession. 

The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard Rock. This 
great man is short of stature, is fat, and waddles as he walks. He 
always wears a white three-tailed wig nicely combed and frizzled upon 
each cheek. Sometimes he carries a cane, but a hat never j it is 
indeed very remarkable that this extraordinary personage should never 
wear a hat, but so it is, a hat he never wears. He is usually drawn, 
at the top of his own bills, sitting in his arm-chair, holding a little 
bottle between his finger and thumb, and surrounded with rotten 
teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and gallipots. No man can promise 
fairer or better than he ; for, as he observes, " Be your disorder never 
so far gone, be under no uneasiness, make yourself quite easy, I can 
cure you," 

The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal pretensions, 
is Doctor Timothy Franks, living in the Old Bailey. As Rock is 
remarkably squab, his great rival Franks is remarkably tall. He was 
born in the year of the Christian aera 1692, and is, while I now write, 
exactly sixty-eight years, three months, and four days old. Age, how- 
ever, has no ways impaired his usual health and vivacity 3 I am told he 
generally walks with his breast open. This gentleman, who is of a 
mixed reputation, is particularly remarkable for a becoming assurance. 



Brooke.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 533 

which carries him gently through life ; for, except Doctor Rock, none 
are more blessed with the advantage of face than Doctor Franks. 

And yet the great have their foibles as well as the little. I am 
almost ashamed to mention it. — Let the foibles of the great rest in 
peace. — Yet I must impart the whole. — These two great men are 
actually now at variance 3 like mere men, mere common mortals. 
Rock advises the world to beware of bog-trotting quacks 5 Franks 
retorts the wit and the sarcasm, by fixing on his rival the odious ap- 
pellation of Dumpling Dick. He calls the serious Doctor Rock, 
Dumpling Dick ! What profanation ! Dumpling Dick ! What a 
pity that the learned, who were born mutually to assist in enlightening 
the world, should thus differ among themselves, and make even the 
profession ridiculous ! Sure the world is wide enough, at least, for two 
great personages to figure in ; men of science should leave controversy 
to the little world below them ; and then we might see Rock and 
Franks walking together, hand in hand, smiling onward to immortality. 
— On Quack Doctors. Essay xx. 



226.— THE INFURIATED CATS. 

Brooke, 1706 — 1783. 

[Henry Brooke, son of a clergyman, born in Cavan, Ireland, in 1706, was educated 
at Trinity College, Dublin. He went to London in 1724 to study law, made the 
acquaintance of Swift and Pope, and other distinguished men, and published his 
first effusion, " Universal Beauty: a Philosophical Poem, in Six Books," in 1735 
and 1736. This was followed by several tragedies, "^ Gustavus Vasa" in 1739, and 
"The Earl of Essex" in 1749, being the best known, and a novel, "The Fool of 
Quality," in 1766. This novel was very popular at the time, and was much admired 
by the Rev. J. Wesley. A new edition, with preface by Rev. C. Kingsley, appeared 
in 1859. Brooke, who obtained the post of Barrack-Master in Ireland, died Oct. 10, 
1783-] 
There was a villager in Hampstead, about ten years of age, who had 
conceived an uncommon kindness for Ned, on account of his spright- 
liness, his wit, and good humour. To this condoling friend he had 
imparted his grievances, and on him alone he depended for execu- 
tion of the project proposed for redress."^ 

On a certain moonless night they mustered four tame cats, and 
having bound some feaze round three or four inches of the extremity 
of each of their tails, they lodged them together in a bag ; and some- 
what after supper-time, when all the town was silent, they marched 



* For playing a trick upon Mr. Snarle, Ned had received chastisement both from 
Mr. Snarle and Mr. Fenton. 



534 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Brooke. 

softly and cautiously to the house of Mr. Snarl e. There Ned's friend, 
with his knife, dexterously picked away the putty from a pane of the 
window of a side chamber, where no light appeared ; and having put 
fire to the feuze of each tail successively, they slipped their cats, one 
by one, in at the window ; and again having pegged the pane into its 
place, they withdrew to a little distance to watch the issue. 

The poor cats remained silent, and universally inoffensive, while 
they telt no damage. But as soon as the fire had seized on their tails, 
they began to speak to you in a language wholly peculiar, as one 
would think, to sentiments and sounds of diabolical intention-. 

Mr. and Mrs. Snarle had been jangling over the fire in an opposite 
parlour, when their dispute was suddenly settled by this outcry, as 
they imagined, of a legion of infernals. They instantly started up, 
and cast a countenance of pale and contagious panic at each other. 
But George the footman, a strong and bold fellow, having just before 
entered on some business to his master,. turned and run to the cham- 
ber from whence the peal came. He threw open the door with his 
wonted intrepidity ; but this was as far as mortal courage could go : 
for the cats spying a passage whereby, as they conceived, they might 
fly from their pain, rushed suddenly and jointly on the face and breast 
of George, and back he fell, with a cry of terror and desperation. 
On, however, went the cats, and flying into the parlour, one fastened 
a claw in each cheek of Mr. Snarle; and, as his lady screamed out 
and clapt her hands before her face, another fastened with four fangs 
on her best Brussels head, and rent and tore away after a lamentable 
manner. 

The chamber-maid and cook hearing the uproar from the kitchen, 
were afraid to ascend, and still more afraid to stay below alone j they 
therefore crept softly and trembling upstairs. The torture the cats 
were in did not permit them to be attached to any single object. 
They had quitted Mr. and Mrs. Snarle, and now flew about the 
parlour, smashing, dashing, and overturning piers, glasses, and china, 
and whatever came in their way, as though it had been the very 
palace of Pandaemonium itself. 

George was again on his legs ; his master and mistress had eloped 
from the parlour, and met the two maids in the middle of the entry. 
They concluded, nemine con. to get as speedily as they might from 
the ministers of darkness, and would willingly have escaped by the 
street-door 3 but, alas ! this was not possible ; one of the devils guarded 
the pass, and clinging to the great lock with all his talons, growled and 
yelled in the dialect of twenty infuriated cats. The stairs however 
remained open, and up they would have rushed, but were so enfeebled 
by their fright, that it could not be done in the way of a race. 



Brooke.} OF MODERN LITERATURE. 535 

As they mounted hj the help of the walls and the banisters^ says 
Airs. Snarle to her mate^ in a languid and soft voice, " M7 dear and my 
jewel, 'tis all along of you that I am thus haunted ; your old friend, I 
find, makes no distinction of persons : and when he comes to take you 
home, as come he will, 'tis twenty to one but he takes me for com- 
pany." "Indeed, my angel," cries Mr. Snarle, in a tone of like com- 
placence, " I should much rather he would be pleased to take me single 
wherever it may be his good pleasure to carry me ; for I know of 
nothing that I have done so heinous neither, to have one damnation 
heaped on the top of the other." 

Having scaled as far as tlie dining-room, they all entered and bolted 
the door 3 and Mr. Snarle, opening a window, saw a large posse of 
neighbours who had gathered below. " What is the matter. Sir ?" cried 
one of them ; " what is the meaning of this horrible uproar and din ? 
one would think that hell was empty, and tliat all its inhabitants were 
come to keep carnival in your house." 

" O, a ladder ! a ladder," cries Mr. Snarle ; " deliver us, good people, 
good Christian people ! a ladder, we beseech ye, a ladder, a ladder !" 
" That indeed," cries a wag, "is the last good turn an honest fellow 
has occasion for." 

The ladder was soon brought, and this panic-stricken family were 
helped down, and charitably conducted to the great inn of St. George 
and the Dragon ; where, with the help of sack-whey, warm-beds, and 
their remaining terrors, they got a heart}"- sweat, and were somewhat 
composed by ten o'clock next morning. They then got up, and 
having breakfasted on a pot of milled chocolate, they hurried to 
London, without adventuring to send to the haunted mansion for any 
change of clothes or linen ; for they would rather have put on gar- 
ments that had been dipped in the blood of Nessus, than have touched 
anything in a house of which, with the furniture, plate, bedding, and 
other appurtenances, the devil, as they conceived, had taken legal and 
full possession. 

In truth, there was scarce an inhabitant of the whole town of 
Hampstead who differed in opinion on this head ; insomuch that, as 
day after day began gradually to shut in, all people who had occasion 
to pass by the dwelling of the late ejected Mr. Snarle kept more and 
more aloof to the opposite side of the way, in proportion as their 
apprehensions increased with the darkness. And all things in the 
house remained, as safe from depredation as though they had been 
guarded by a regiment of dragoons. 

Imaginary bowlings were heard by the whole neighbourhood, and 
still continued to issue from thence night by night ; and it was as 
firmly believed, as it was currently reported, that while Mr. Snarle 



536 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[Palgrave. 



made his escape through the window, Satan clawed off a collop from 
his posteriors, in earnest of his carcase in remainder on a future day. 

The cats, in the meantime, lived plentifully and at free cost on the 
cold meats which they found in the kitchen and larder 3 and, as the 
anguish of their tails was now no more remembered, they kept un- 
disturbed possession of their new acquisition ; so that during their 
residence not even a mouse was stirring. — The Fool of Quality ; or, the 
History oj Henry Earl of Moreland. Chap. x. 



227.— THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 

[Sir F. Palgrave, 1788 — 1861. 
[Francts Palgrave, of Jewish extraction, son of Meyer Cohen, born in London, 
July, 1788, was educated in private. Dr. Montucci for some time directing his 
studies. In 1803 he was articled to a legal firm, in 1822 was employed by the 
Record Commission, and in 1827 was called to the bar. On his marriage in 1823 
he changed his name from Cohen to Palgrave, the maiden name of his wife's 
mother. At an early age he showed extraordinary ability, and speedily achieved a 
reputation for his researches and writings as an antiquarian. He contributed a 
''History of England" to the " Family Library" published in 1831. His "History 
of the Rise and Progress of the English Commonwealth during the Arrglo-Saxon 
Period," appeared in 1832; the first volume of "The History of Normandy and of 
England" in 185 1, and the second volume in 1857. The third and fourth volumes 
were published after his death in 1864. Sir Francis Palgrave, who was knighted in 
1832, and was appointed deputy-keeper of her Majesty's Records in 1838, con- 
tributed to the quarterly reviews, and wrote numerous works in addition to those 
already noticed, and amongst others, " Truths and Fictions of the Middle Ages : 
the Merchant and the Friar," published in 1837. His labours at the Record 
Office were most valuable, and he edited several volumes issued by the Record Com- 
mission. Sir Francis Palgrave died at Hampstead, July 6, 1861.] 

As the Normans were marshalled in three divisions, so they began 
the battle by simultaneous attacks upon three points of the English 
forces. Immediately before the Duke, rode Taillefer, the Minstrel, 
singing, with a loud and clear voice, the lay of Charlemagne and 
Roland, and the emprizes of the Paladins who had fallen in the 
dolorous pass of Roncevaux. Taillefer, as his guerdon, had craved 
permission to strike the first blow, for he was a valiant warrior, emula- 
ting the deeds which he sung : his appellation, " Taille-fer,'' is pro- 
bably to be considered not as his real name, but as an epithet derived 
from his strength and prowess ; and he fully justified his demand, by 
transfixing the first Englishman whom he attacked, and by felling the 
second to the ground. The battle now became general, and raged 
with the greatest fury. The Normans advanced beyond the English 
lines, but they were driven back, and forced into a trench, where 
horses and riders fell upon each other in fearful confusion. More 



Palgrave.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 537 

Normans were slain here^ than in any other part of the field. The 
alarm spread ; the light troops left in charge of the baggage and the 
stores thought that all was lost, and were about to take flight, but the 
fierce Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, the Duke's half-brother, and who was 
better fitted for the shield than for the mitre, succeeded in reassuring 
them, and then, returning to the field, and rushing into that part 
where the battle was hottest, he fought as the stoutest of the warriors 
engaged in the conflict, directing their movements and inciting them 
to slaughter. 

From nine in the morning till three in the afternoon, the successes 
on either side were nearly balanced. The charges of the Norman 
cavalry gave them great advantage, but the English phalanx repelled 
their enemies 5 and the soldiers were so well protected by their targets, 
that the artillery of the Normans was long discharged in vain. The 
bowmen, seeing that they had failed to make any impression, altered 
the direction of their shafrs, and, instead of shooting point-blank, the 
flights of arrows were directed upwards, so that the points came down 
upon the heads of the men of England, and the iron shower fell with 
murderous effect. The English ranks were exceedingly distressed by 
the vol lies, yet they still stood firm 3 and the Normans now employed 
a stratagem to decoy their opponents out of their entrenchments. A 
feigned retreat on their part, induced the English to pursue them with 
great heat. The Normans suddenly wheeled about, and a new and 
fiercer battle was urged. The field was covered with separate bands 
of foemen, each engaged with one another. Here, the English 
yielded — there, they conquered. One English Thane, armed with a 
battleaxe, spread dismay amongst the Frenchmen. He was cut down 
by Roger de Montgomery. The Normans have preserved the name 
of the Norman baron, but that of the Englishman is lost in oblivion. 
Some other English Thanes are also praised, as having singly, and 
by their personal prowess, delayed the ruin of their countrymen and 
country. 

At one period of the battle, the Normans were nearly routed. The 
cry was raised, that the Duke was slain, and they began to fly in every 
direction. William threw off his helmet, and galloping through the 
squadrons, rallied his barons, though not without great difficulty. 
Harold, on his part, used every possible exertion, and was distinguished 
as the most active and bravest amongst the soldiers in the host which 
he led on to destruction. A Norman arrow wounded him in the left 
eye ; he dropped from his steed in agony, and was borne to the foot 
of the standard. The English began to give way, or, rather, to 
retreat to the standard as their rallying point. The Normans encircled 
them, and fought desperately to reach this goal. Robert Fitz Ernest 



538 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Forsyth. 

had almost seized the banner, bat he was killed in the attempt. 
William led his troops on, with the intention, it is said, of measuring 
his sword with Harold. He did encounter an English horseman, from 
whom he received such a stroke upon his helmet that he was nearly- 
brought to the ground. The Normans flew to the aid of their 
sovereign, and the bold Englishman was pierced by their lances. 
About the same time, the tide of battle took a momentary turn. 
The Kentish men and East Saxons raUied, and repelled the Norman 
barons ; but Harold was not amongst them ; and William led on his 
troops with desperate intrepidity. In the thick crowd of the assailants 
and the assailed, the hoofs of the horses were plunged deep into the 
gore of the dead, and the dying. Gurth was at the foot of the 
standard, without hope, but without fear — he fell by the falchion of 
William. — The English banner was cast down, and the Gonfanon 
planted in its place, announced that William of Normandy was the 

Conqueror. 

It was now late in the evening. The English troops were entirely 
broken, yet no Englishman would surrender. The conflict continued 
in many parts of the bloody field, long after dark. The fugitives 
spread themselves over the adjoining country, then covered with wood 
and forest. Wherever the English could make a stand, they resisted ; 
and the Normans confess that the great preponderance of their force, 
alone enabled them to obtain the victory. — The History of Normandy 
and of England. Vol. III. Chap. vi. §§ 12, 13. 



228.— VALLOMBROSA. 

[Forsyth, 1763 — 1815. 

[Joseph Forsyth, son of a merchant, born at Elgin, Feb. 18, 1763, was educated at 
the grammar-school in his native place, and the University of Aberdeen. He 
repaired to London, and for many years conducted a school at Newington Butts, 
from which he was compelled to retire on account of ill-health. At the conclusion 
of the peace of Amiens he went to Italy, and on the breaking out of war was taken 
prisoner at Turin, May 25, 1803, nor was he released till the peace in 18x4, arriving 
in England in May of that year. Though he paid three visits to Scotland, his time 
was spent chiefly amongst his books, and at the reading room of the British Museum, 
and he died in London, Sept. 20, 1815. With the hope of inducing Napoleon to 
liberate him on account of his literary labours, he collected his notes on his tour in 
Italy, and had them published in 1813 in England, under the title, " Remarks on 
Antiquities, Arts, and Letters during an Excursion in Italy, in the years 1802 and 
1803."] 
This grand solitude, which was first called Acqua Bella from the beauty 
otits stream, takes its present name from a valley ; but the abbey itself 
stands in an amphitheatre of hills j an amphitheatre so accurately 



Forsj-th.] OF MODERN LITEILiTLTlE. 5.^9 

described by Milton that, I am contidenr, the picture in his mind was 
only a recollection of Vallombrosa : 

— Which cro%vns with her enclosure grreen. 
As with a rural mound, the champaign head 
Of a steep wilderness, whose hair\- sides 
With thicket overg:rown, grotesque and wild, 
Access denied ; and over-head up grew 
Insuperable height of loftiest shade, 
A syh-an scene : and as the ranks ascend 
Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
Of stateliest view. 

The intermediate approaches to the abbey are pLmted in the open 
parkish style, and hnely contrast \^-ith the black girdle of forest round 
It. The abbey is a large, loose pile of various construction, and regular 
only in one front. Why is no convent to be found absolutely regular ? 
Surely one quadrangle might be made sutficient for all the wants of a 
few monks. Allot three sides to their cells, the fourth to tlie general 
offices, refectory, librar}", &c., and insulate the church in the middle of 
the court ; then would the result be cloisteral, connected, uniform ; 
Rehgion surrounded with her votaries : the tabernacle in the bosom of 
tlie camp. 

Being introduced by a letter to the abbot, and accompanied by the 
brother of two Vallombrosans, I met here a ver\^ kind reception. Those 
amiable men seem to study hospitality as a profession. People of all 
ranks and rehgions are equally welcome, and entertained without 
either officiousness or neglect. Though die monks then resident were 
but fourteen in number, tlieir fa772iglia, including novices, lay-brethren, 
menials, and workmen, exceeded a hundred. In summer the 
Foj'estei-ia of the abbev is usuallv full of strangers, and during the 
winter half-year all tlie indigent neighbours Hock hither for their daily 
loaf. 

Such indiscriminate hospitality is, however, but the virtue of bar- 
barous societ3\ Baneful to industry and independence, it feeds poor 
men, but it keeps them poor ; it gives tliem a lodging, but it weans 
them from home. Not that I grudge tliis rich community tlie means 
of being so bountiful: I rather grudge it the youth, the talents, and the 
active powers which the Institution entombs : I grudge it the very 
virtues of the men whom I found here. Those virtues tend only to 
palliate its defects, and correct its general influence by tlie good which 
they do in detail. 

These excellent men bring economy to the aid of beneticence. 
While they give bread to hundreds, to themselves they allow but the 
modest stipend of eighteen crowns a year : yet the revenues of the 
abbey are about 40,000 crowns. Its fattorias are palaces, its farms 



540 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Forsyfh. 

are highly cultivated, and its tenantry weahhy ; while the Institution, 
by maintaining the same unalterable plan, and training all its members 
to the same habits, secures itself from the misgovernment which a 
private inheritance is occasionally exposed to. The private gentleman, 
perhaps, spends his income more profitably to the public revenue. His 
rents do not return so directly as the monk's into the mass of the people, 
which is the ultimate destination of all property j but they return 
through more taxable channels, through cellars and shops. 

Here is a museum containing some curious objects connected with 
the place ; an astonishing variety of mushrooms all natives of Vallom- 
brosa, painted by Don Tozzi, and two elephants' skulls, which were 
dug up in these mountains, and are referred by some to the passage of 
Annibal, by others to the same causes that have lodged such fossils in 
many parts of Europe. I remarked several immense port-folios, in 
which they pretend that a monk has collected every Madonna yet en- 
graved since the origin of the art. Such are the collections on which 
the misers and little minds of a convent turn the accumulating passion, 
when debarred from money. Here, too, are preserved all the pastoral 
staves that tbe abbots have borne since Gualberti founded the order. 
The first, a plain black stick, had its head formed like a T^ the next 
head resembled an adzej the next an adze without its pole; and the 
rest in succession bent gradually into a crozier. In the same crooked 
manner did the abbots themselves, from subsisting on the charity of a 
few nuns, creep into territory, lordship, and jurisdiction. 

On one of the cliffs is a monastery in miniature, called the Paradisino, 
which commands a distant view of Florence, the vale, and the sea. The 
rooms are covered with a multitude of wretched engravings, which we 
were obliged to praise, as their reverend collector was our guide. The 
chapel contains some pictures of Del Sarto, and among these a beautiful 
accident of art. Andrea, having four large saints to paint on the altar- 
piece, was embarrassed by a panel which divided them into pairs. To 
cover this defect he carelessly rubbed two cherubs on the board, and 
was surprized to find these children of chance far more admirable than 
their principals. 

It was here that Don Hugford, a monk of English extraction, revived 
the art of Scagliuola. This art had been confined to the imitation of 
inanimate objects, until his improvements gave it the chiaroscuro 
necessary to landscape and the human figure. I remarked at Vallom- 
brosa that all Hugford's pictures are cracked in the outlines, and, on my 
return to Florence, I mentioned this defect to Stoppioni, who is 
Hugford's descendant in the art. Stoppioni imputed it to an improper 
oil used in the first method ; as no such flaws appear in his own works, 
or in those of his master Gori. 



1 



Smith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 541 

Scagliuola, though its materials be different, seems to bear in its 
effects some analogy to the ancient Encaustic. It resists the action of 
the air, it gives solidity to colour, and the selenite, though inserted 
like mosaic, is not so subject to dissolution. Of the ancient Encaustic 
no remains have escaped : the art itself is lost. Reiffestein, Quatremere, 
Requeno, and some other Spaniards, have lately attempted its recovery^ 
but, like Count Caylus and Bachelier, they give us a multitude of 
methods for want of the one sought. — Remarks on /4ntiquities, Arts, 
and Letters during an Excursion in Italy, in the Years 1802-3. 
pp. 79-84. 



229.— EMIGRATION. 

[Rev. S. Smith, 1771 — 1845: 

[Sydney Smith, born at Woodford, in Essex, in 1771, received his education at Win- 
chester School and New College, Oxford, and having taken orders became curate of 
Amesbury, Wiltshire. He soon after went to Edinburgh, where he remained five 
years, and was one of the promoters of the " Edinburgh Review," which appeared in 
Oct., 1802. He took up his residence in London in 1803, and having held several 
preferments in the Church, was appointed one of the Canons Residentiary of St. 
Paul's in 1831. His chief works are "Six Sermons," published at Edinburgh in 
1800; " Peter Plymley's Letters" in 1807; "Sermons" in 1809; various letters, 
political pamphlets, and sermons. His contributions to the " Edinburgh Review" 
were collected and, with other writings, republished in 1839. ^^ "^i^^ Feb. 22, 
1845, ^'^d ^ memoir by his daughter appeared in 1855.] 

As for Emigration, every man, of course, must determine for himself. 
A carpenter under 30 years of age, who finds himself at Cincinnati 
with an axe over his shoulder, and ten pounds in his pocket, will get 
rich in America, if the change of climate does not kill him. So will 
a farmer who emigrates early with some capital. But any person with 
tolerable prosperity here had better remain where he is. There are 
considerable evils, no doubt, in England : but it would be madness 
not to admit, that it is, upon the whole, a very happy country, — and 
we are much mistaken if the next 20 years will not bring with it a 
great deal of internal improvement. The country has long been 
groaning under the evils of the greatest foreign war we were ever 
engaged in ; and we are just beginning to look again into our home 
affairs. Political economy has made an astonishing progress since they 
were last investigated ; and every session of Parliament brushes off 
some of the cobwebs and dust of our ancestors. The Apprentice 
Laws have been swept away ; the absurd nonsense of the Usury Laws 
will probably soon follow j Public Education and Saving Banks have 
been the invention of these last ten years 3 and the strong fortress of 
Bigotry has been rudely assailed. Then, with all its defects, we have 



542 



THE E VERY-DAY BOOK 



[Crabbe. 



a Parliament of inestimable value. If there be a place in any country 
where ^oo well educated men can meet together and talk with 
impunity of public affairs, and if what they say is pubhshed, that 
country must improve. It is not pleasant to emigrate into a country 
of changes and revolution, the size and integrity of whose empire no 
man can predict 

The Americans are a very sensible, reflecting people, and have con- 
ducted their affairs extremely well 3 but it is scarcely possible to con- 
ceive that such an empire should very long remain undivided, or that 
the dwellers on the Columbia should have common interest with the 
navigators of the Hudson and the Delaware. 

England is, to be sure, a very expensive country j but a milhon of 
millions has been expended in making it habitable and comfortable ; 
and this is a constant source of revenue, or, what is the same thing, a 
constant diminution of expense to every man living in it. The price 
an Englishman pays for a turnpike road is not equal to the tenth part 
of what the delay would cost him without a turnpike. The New 
River Company brings water to every inhabitant of London at an 
infinitely less price than he could dip for it out of the Thames. No 
country, in fact, is so expensive as one which human beings are just 
beginning to inhabit j — where there are no roads, no bridges, no skill, 
no help, no combination of powers, and no force of capital. 

How, too, can any man take upon himself to say, that he is so 
indifferent to his country that he will not begin to love it intensely, 
when he is 5000 or 6000 miles from it ? And what a dreadful disease 
Nostalgia must be on the banks of the Missouri ! Severe and painful 
poverty will drive us all anywhere : but a wise man should be quite 
sure he has so irresistible a plea, before he ventures on the Great or 
the Little Wabash. He should be quite sure that he does not go there 
from ill-temper — or to be pitied — or to be regretted — or from igno- 
rance of what is to happen to him — or because he is a poet — but 
because he has not enough to eat here, and is sure of abundance 
where he is going. — America. Edinburgh Review, 181 8. 



230.— THE BENEVOLENT MISER. 

[Rev. G. Crabbe, 1754 — 1832. 

[George Crabbe, born at Aldborough, Suffolk, Dec. 24, 1754, was apprenticed to a 
surgeon in 1768, but having literary tastes, quitted the profession and repaired to 
London in 1780. Having suffered great privations, he applied to Edmund Burke, 
through whose introduction Dodsley was induced to publish " The Library," in 
1 78 1. Edmund Burke took great interest in the young poet, and invited him to reside 
at Bcaconsfield. By his advice he was ordained in 1782, and he was appointed 
chaplain to the Duke of Rutland, and went, in 1783, to reside at Belvoir Castle, 



Crabbe.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 543 

which he left in 1785, to reside at a living given him by Lord Thurlow. His poem, 
" The Newspaper," appeared in 1785; "The Parish Register," in 1807; "The 
Borough," in 1810; and his "Tales of the Hall," in 1819. The later years of his 
life were spent at Trowbridge, of which he was rector, and here he died, Feb. 3, 
1832. Jeffrey, who calls him "the satirist of low life," remarks, "Mr. Crabbe is 
" distinguished from all other poets, both by the choice of his subjects, and by his 
" manner of treating them. All his persons are taken from the lower ranks of 
" life; and all his scenery from the most ordinary and familiar objects of nature and 
*• art . . . . By the mere force of his art, and the novelty of his style, he compels us 
" to attend to objects that are usually neglected, and to enter into feelings from which 
" we are, in general, but too eager to escape ; and then trusts to nature for the effect 
" of the representation."] 

Leave now our streets, and in yon plain behold 

Those pleasant Seats for the reduced and old ; 

A merchant's gift, whose wife and children died, 

When he to saving all his powers applied j 

He wore his coat till bare was every thread. 

And with the meanest fare his body fed. 

He had a female cousin, who with care 

Walk'd in his steps, and learn'd of him to spare ; 

With emulation and success they strove. 

Improving still, still seeking to improve. 

As if that useful knowledge they would gain — ■ 

How little food would human life sustain : 

No pauper came their table's crumbs to crave 5 

Scraping they lived, but not a scrap they gave : 

When beggars saw the frugal Merchant pass. 

It moved their pity, and they said, '' Alas ! 

" Hard is thy fate, my brother," and they felt 

A beggar's pride as they that pity dealt. 

The dogs, who learn of man to scorn the poor, 

Bark'd him away from every decent door j 

While they who saw him bare, but thought him rich, 

To show respect or scorn, they knew not which. 

But while our Merchant seem'd so base and mean. 
He had his wanderings, sometimes, " not unseen j" 
To give in secret was a favourite act. 
Yet more than once they took him in the fact : 
To scenes of various woe he nightly went. 
And serious sums in healing misery spent j 
Oft has he cheer'd the wretched, at a rate 
For which he daily might have dined on plate ; 
He has been seen — his hair all silver-white. 
Shaking and shining — as he stole by night. 
To feed unenvied on his still delight. 



544 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Crabbe. 



A twofold taste he had j to give and spare. 

Both were his duties, and had equal care ; 

It was his joy, to sit alone and fast. 

Then send a widow and her boys repast : 

Tears in his eyes would, spite of him, appear. 

But he from other eyes has kept the tear : 

All in a wint'ry night from far he came. 

To soothe the sorrows of a suffering dame ; 

Whose husband robb'd him, and to whom he meant 

A ling'ring, but reforming punishment : 

Home then he walk'd, and found his anger rise. 

When fire and rushlight met his troubled eyes j 

But these extinguish'd, and his prayer address'd 

To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to rest. 

His seventieth year was pass'd, and then was seen 
A building rising on the northern green ; 
There was no blinding all his neighbours' eyes. 
Or surely no one would have seen it rise : 
Twelve rooms contiguous stood, and six were near. 
There men were placed, and sober matrons herej 
There were behind small useful gardens made. 
Benches before, and trees to give them shade ; 
In the first room were seen, above, below. 
Some marks of taste, a few attempts at show j 
The founder's picture and his arms were there 
(Not till he left us), and an elbow'd chair j 
There, 'mid these signs of his superior place. 
Sat the mild ruler of this humble race. 

Within the row are men who strove in vain. 
Through years of trouble, wealth and ease to gain 5 
Less must they have than an appointed sum. 
And freemen been, or hither must not come j 
They should be decent, and command respect 
(Though needing fortune), whom these doors protect. 
And should for thirty dismal years have tried 
For peace unfelt and competence denied. 

Strange ! that o'er men thus train'd in sorrow's school. 
Power must be held, and they must live by rule -, 
Infirm, corrected by misfortunes, old. 
Their habits settled and their passions cold ; 
Of health, wealth, power, and worldly cares bereft. 
Still must they not at liberty be left; 



Vaughan.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. $45 

There must be one to rule them, to restrain 
And guide the movements of his erring train. 

If then control imperious, check severe. 
Be needed where such reverend men appear ; 
To what would youth, without such checks, aspire. 
Free the w^ild wish, uncurb' d the strong desire ? 
And where (in college or in camp) they found 
The heart ungovern'd and the hand unbound ? 

His house endow' d, the generous man resign'd 
All power to rule, nay power of choice declined 5 
He and the female saint survived to view 
Their work complete, and bade the world adieu ! 
— The Borough. Letter XI H. J he Aims-House and Trustees, 



231.— LONELINESS. 

[Rev. C. J. Vaughan, D.D. 1817. 
[Charles John Vaughan, son of a clergyman at Leicester, born about 1817, received 
his education at Rugby, and Trinity College, Cambridge, of which he was elected 
Fellow. Having performed parochial duty, he was appointed head master of Harrow 
in 1844. The school prospered greatly under his direction, and he resigned the 
head mastership in 1859. Dr. Vaughan, who had refused the offer of the bishopric 
of Peterborough, in 1 860 wais appointed Vicar of Doncaster, and in 1869 Master of the 
Temple He has published several volumes ot sermons and discourses, the best known 
being " Sermons in the Chapel of Harrow School," in 1847-53; "Nine Sermons 
Preached at Harrow," in 1849 '' "Personality of the Tempter, and other Sermons," 
in 1851; "Memorials of Harrow Sundays: a Selection of Sermons Preached in 
the Chapel of Harrow School," in i860; "Lessons of Life and Godliness: a 
Selection of Sermons Preached in Doncaster Church," and " The Book and the 
Life: Four Sermons Preached before the University of Cambridge in November, 
1862," in 1862 ; " Lectures on the Revelation of St. John," in 1863; "Church of 
the First Days : Lectures on the Acts," in 1865 ; and " Characteristics of Christ^s 
Teaching," in 1 866.] 

Loneliness. It has many senses, inward and outward. 

T. There is, first, what I may call the loneliness of simple solitude. 
We who lead a very busy life, who know not what it is from early 
morning till late evening to have (as it is sometimes expressed) a mo- 
ment that we can call our own, a moment in which we can feel that 
the load is really removed and that we are free to enjoy ourselves for 
enjoyment's sake, can scarcely perhaps enter into the thought of tlie 
oppressiveness of solitude. To us it is a luxury to be alone : silence, much 
more, repose, is health to us and revival ; and these things are associated 
in our mind with solitude. So different is it to look upon solitude 
from a Hfe of business and intermixture with the world, and to look 

NN 



54^ THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Vaughan. 

upon it from within the four walls of a sick-room or a prison. Solitude 
which is first voluntary, and secondly occasional, is but half solitude. 
Solitude which we fly to as a rest, and can exchange at will for society 
which we love, is a widely different thing from that solitude which is 
either the consequence of bereavement or the punishment of crime j 
that solitude from which we cannot escape, and which perhaps is asso- 
ciated with bitter or remorseful recollections. From such solitude a 
merciful Providence has as yet kept you. And yet even you may have 
known something of a compulsory solitude. Now and then an illness 
severer than usual has confined you in these days of youth to a sick-room, 
where you have been almost as much cut off from the companions of 
school as from the tenderer solaces of a loving home. At such times 
have you not felt a heavy demand made upon your cheerfulness and 
contentment ? Have you not found disagreeable reflections and painful 
(even if imaginary) forebodings more powerful with you than visions 
of hope, than thoughts of thankfulness ? At all events, a little later in 
life, you will know these things well. When, for example, a young 
man first finds himself established as the master of a dwelling which is 
all his own; his lodgings, it may be, his chambers, or even his college- 
rooms ; amidst some feelings of agreeable independence, and of 
freedom from intrusion or disturbance, there are times when he cannot 
suppress a sense of isolation and desolateness, and would give the world 
to be again as he once was, the object of care, of thought, and affection, 
to others around and above him. How strong in after years is the 
memory of such marked feelings of loneliness ! How do we continue 
to associate them, as freshly as at the monient of their occurrence, with 
the sounds and images of the time and place ; the hour of the day or 
evening, the ringing of a bell or the monotonous movement of a clock, 
the aspect of an opposite house, or the dull rainy weather which 
seemed to be more than outward ! And if, according to the frequent 
chances of life in this generation, any one of you should ever be called 
upon to exchange his very country for a distant home; if in the pursuit 
of fortune, or at the call of professional duty, he should be required to 
leave home and friends behind him, and go he knows not whither, to 
return he knows not when ; what a sense will he have of the meaning 
of the word now uttered, loneliness ; the loneliness, if not strictly of 
solitude, yet of separation, of severance, of isolation ! How will he 
find that there may be such a thing as solitude even amongst numbers ; a 
solitude made even more complete by the very presence of an unsympa- 
thizing crowd ! What a life-long recollection will he retain of that 
trymg moment, when the last words have been spoken and the last 
farewell exchanged, when the removal of the gangway has finally 
separated between the going and the staying, the deck crowded with 



Vaughan.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 547 

the one and the shore with the other, and the ship itself has gathered 
up its wings for flisjht ! What an impression will he have then of the 
religious trial of solitude ; how it reveals to us, as in a moment, what 
manner of spirit we are of, whether we have any root, any vitality, in 
ourselves, or are only the creatures of society and of circumstance, 
found out at once and convicted by the application of the individual 
touchstone ! 

2. Again, there is the loneliness of sorrow. Is not loneliness the 
prominent feeling in all deep sorrow ? Is it not the feeling of loneliness 
which gives its sting to bereavement, to the loss of friends ? Not, of 
course, in those minor losses which, though we may feel them at the 
time, yet do not permanently affect our lives ; but in bereavements 
which deserve the name, the loss (and more especially the early loss) 
of a sister or mother, in later life the loss of a wife or husband, is not 
the lonehness of heart consequent upon it the heaviest and bitterest 
part of the sorrow ; is it not this which deprives all after joy of its chief 
zest, and reduces life itself to a colourless and level landscape ? 

3. Again, there is the loneliness of a sense of sin. Whatever 
duties may lie upon us towards other men, in our innermost relation to 
God we are and must be alone. And we may say what we will against 
the selfishness of some men's religion ; against the habit, too much 
fostered doubtless by some, of scrutinizing every affection and feeling 
with a minuteness and an anxiety which at last becomes morbid and 
dangerous ; but, after all, the foundations of every really Christian 
life are laid deep in the individual consciousness : a Christian hope rs 
the result of transactions essentially secret between the soul and God ; 
and the first of these is that awakening of a sense of sin which is the 
first office, as we believe, of the Holy Spirit in His mission to the indi- 
vidual as in His mission to the world. When the sense of sin is 
heavy upon us, how incapable is it of anything but solitude ! A man 
trying to get rid of it rushes into society : many do thus get rid of it, 
but is it well with them ? One who knows what it is will not desire 
to get rid of it. Even in its first anxieties and miseries he recognizes, 
however remotely and indistinctly, a prospect of good. Even then he 
would not part with it, cost him what it may, for all his former 
security and thoughtlessness. But he finds that, if he would not stifle 
the sense of sin, to his endless ruin, he must be tolerant of this inward 
loneliness ; he must be careful how he talks of it to his best friend : in 
the very telling of his fears and self-reproaches lies a risk of dissipating 
the one and blunting the other : a mistaken kindness makes his friend 
palliate them, makes him try to heal the hurt slightly even while 
speaking of the true Physician : and besides, in the very telling there 
is a risk of evil, of conveying wrong impressions, of parading humility, 

N N 2 



548 TEE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Steele. 

of saying things for the sake of having them denied, of substituting the 
sympathy of man for the confidence of God. No times are more 
truly miserable than those which follow upon such attempts to get rid 
of the loneliness within. God is our proper refuge at such times j 
but then He must be our one refuge : we must be content with Him : 
every hour, every few moments, really spent before Him under the 
pressure of the burden of our own sins, is a season of true and solid 
relief: it enables us to bear on, sometimes it makes us of a cheerful 
countenance, telling, without mistake and without peril, of the progress 
of the work v^^ithin. 

And if such be the loneliness of repentance, what must be the lone- 
liness of remorse, which is repentance without God, without Christ, 
and therefore without hope ; the sense of sin unconfessed and unfor- 
saken, only felt as a weight, a burden, and a danger ! If repentance 
is loneliness, remorse is desolation. Repentance makes us lonely 
towards man 5 remorse makes us desolate towards God. That is indeed 
to be alone, when (to use the inspired figure) not only earth is iron, 
but also heaven brass. From such loneliness may God in His mercy 
save us all through His Son Jesus Christ. — Memorials of Harrow 
Sundays. A Selection of Sermons preached in the Chapel of Harrow 
School. Sermon XVII. Isaiah Ixiii. 3. " I have trodden the wine^ 
press alone." 



232.— CHARACTERS OF THE MEMBERS OF THE CLUB AT THE 
TRUMPET. 

[Sir R. Steele, 1671 — 1729. 

[Richard Steele, boTi in Dublin in 1671, his father being secretary to the Duke of Or- 
mond,was in 1692 sent to the Charter-house, where he had Addison for a schoolfellow. 
He proceeded to Merton College, Oxford, but did not take his degree. He enlisted in the 
Horse Guards, rose to the rank of captain, married a rich widow in 1 704, was appointed 
Gazetteer in 1706, and Gentleman Usher to Prince George, and to the Stamp Office, 
in 1 7 10. His first wife died soon after the marriage, and Sep. 9, 1707, he took a second, 
Mary Scurlock, of Welsh extraction. They seem to have lived extravagantly, which 
brought Steele to the verge of ruin. Taking part in the political contests of the 
time,he became involved in a controversy with Swift. Heobtaineda seat in Parlia- 
ment, and falling under displeasure on account of his pamphlet, " The Crisis," 
he was expelled the House of Commons, but was restored to favour on the 
accession of Queen Anne, obtained an appointment in the Royal Household, was 
elected member for Boroughbridge, and was knighted. In 1717 he was nominated 
one of the commissioners of forfeited estates in Scotland; lost his second wife in 
1718; and his health failing, retired into Wales, and died at Llangunnor, Sep. 21, 
1729. His first work, "The Christian Hero/' a religious book, appeared in 1701J 
the comedy of " The Funeral ; or Grief a la Mode," in 1702 ; " The Tender Husband; 
or, the Accomplished Fools," in 1703; " The Lying Lover," in 1704; and the best 
of his comedies, "The Conscious Lovers," in 1722. His fame rests chiefly on his 
coniiibutions to "The Tatler," which he established April 12, 1709; to "The 



Steele.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 549 

Spectator," commenced March i, 1711; to " The Guardian," in 1713; and to other 
periodicals. Dr. Nathan Drake* remarks : " The acquisition of a popular relish for 
" elegant literature, may be dated, indeed, from the period of the publication of 'The 
** Tatler ;' to the progress of this new-formed desire, the ' Spectator ' and ' Guardian ' 
" gave fresh acceleration; nor has the impulse which was thus received for a moment 
** ceased to spread and propagate its influence through every rank of British society. 
"To these papers, in the department of polite letters, we may i;scribe the following 
" great and never-to-be-forgotten obligations. They, it may be affirmed, first pointed 
" out, in a popular way, and with insinuating address, the best authors of classical 
" antiquity and of modern times, and infused into the public mind an enthusiasm 
" for their beauties ; they, calling to their aid the colouring of humour and imagina- 
" tion, effectually detected the sources of bad writing, and exposed to never-dying 
" ridicule the puerilities and meretricious decorations of false wit and bloated com- 
" position; they first rendered criticism familiar and pleasing to the general taste, 
"and excited that curiosity, that acuteness and precision, which have since enabled 
*' so many classes of readers to enjoy, and to appreciate with judgment, the various 
" productions of genius and learning."] 



Haheo senectuti magnam gratiam, quce mihi sermonis aviditatem auxit, pofionis et cibi 
sustulit. TuLL. de Sen. 

I am much beholden to old age, which has increased my eagerness for conversation, in 
proportion as it has lessened my appetites of hunger and thirst. 

Sheer-lane y February 10. 
After having applied my mind with more than ordinary attention to 
my studies, it is my usual custom to relax and unbend it in the con- 
versation of such as are rather easy than shining companions. This I 
tind particularly necessary for me before I retire to rest, in order to 
draw my slumbers upon me by degrees, and fall asleep insensibly. 
This is the particular use I make of a set of heavy honest men, with 
whom I have passed many hours with much indolence, though not 
with great pleasure. Their conversation is a kind of preparative for 
sleep ; it takes the mind down from its abstractions, leads it into the 
familiar traces of thought, and lulls it into that state of tranquillity, 
which is the condition of a thinking man, when he is but half awake. 
After this, my reader will not be surprised to hear the account, which 
I am about to give of a club of my own contemporaries, among whom 
I pass two or three hours every evening. This I look upon as taking 
my first nap before I go to bed. The truth of it is, I should think 
'myself unjust to posterity, as well as to the society at the Trumpet,f 
of which I am a member, did not I in some part of my writings give 
an account of the persons among whom I have passed almost a sixth 
part of my time for these last forty years. Our club consisted origi- 
nally of fifteen j but, partly by the severity of the law in arbitrary 
times, and partly by the natural effects of old agfe, we are at present 
reduced to a third part of that number : in which, however, we have 

* Physician and author, born in 1766; died June 7, 1836, f A public-house in Shire-lane. 



550 THE EKERY-DAY BOOK [Steele. 

this consolation, that the best company is said to consist of five per- 
sons. I must confess, besides the afore-mentioned benefit which I 
meet with in the conversation of this select society, I am not the less 
pleased with the company, in that I find myself the greatest wit 
among them, and am heard as their oracle in all points of learning 
and difBculty. 

Sir Geoffrey Notch, who is the oldest of the club, has been in pos- 
session of the right hand chair time out of mind, and is the only man 
among us that has the liberty of stirring the fire. This our foreman 
is a gentleman of an ancient family, that came to a great estate some 
years before he had discretion, and run it out in hounds, horses, and 
cock-fighting ; for which reason he looks upon himself as an honest, 
worthy gentleman, who has had misfortunes in the world, and calls 
every thriving man a pitiful upstart. 

Major Matchlock is the next senior, who served in the last civil 
wars, and has all the battles hy heart He does not think any actions 
in Europe worth talking of, since the fight of Marston-moor ; and 
every night tells us of his having been knocked off his horse at the 
rising of the London apprentices 3 for which he is in great esteem 
among us. 

Honest old Dick Reptile is the third of our society. He is a good- 
natured indolent man, who speaks little himstlf, but laughs at our 
jokes J and brings his young nephew along with him, a youth of 
eighteen years old, to sho\^^ him good company, and give him a taste 
of the world. This young fellow sits generally silent 3 but whenever 
he opens his mouth, or laughs at anything that passes, he is constantly 
told by his uncle, after a jocular manner, ** Ay, ay, Jack, you young 
men think us fools ; but we old men know you are." 

The greatest wit of our company, next to myself, is a Bencher of 
the neighbouring Inn, who in his youth frequented the ordinaries 
about Charing-cToss, and pretends to have been intimate with Jack 
Ogle. He has about ten distichs of Hudibras without book, and never 
leaves the club until he has applied them all. If any modern wit be 
mentioned, or any town-frolic spoken of, he shakes his head at the 
dulness of the present age, and tells us a story of Jack Ogle. 

For my own part, I am esteemed among them, because they see I 
am something respected by others ; though at the same time I under- 
stand by their behaviour, that I am considered by them as a man of 
a great deal of learning, but no knowledge of the world: insomuch, 
ihat the Major sometimes, in the height of his military i)ride, calls me 
the Philosopher 3 and Sir Geoffrey, no longer ago than last night, upon 
a dispute what day of the month it was then in Holland, pulled his 
pipe out of his mouth, and cried, *' What does the scholar say to it ?'* 



Steele.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 551 

Our club mtets precisely at six o'clock in the evening ; but I did not 
come last night until half an hour after sev^en, by which means I 
escaped the battle of Naseby, which the Major usually begins at about 
three quarters after six : I found also, that my good friend the Bencher 
had already spent three of his distichs^ and only waited an oppor- 
tunity to hear a sermon spoken of, that he might introduce the couplet 
where " a stick" rhymes to " ecclesiastic." At my entrance into the 
room, they were naming a red petticoat and a cloak, by which I found 
that the Bencher had been diverting them with a story of Jack Ogle. 

I had no sooner taken my seat, but Sir Geoffrey, to show his good 
will towards me, gave me a pipe of his own tobacco, and stirred up 
the fire. J look upon it as a point of morality, to be obliged by those 
who endeavour to oblige me 3 and therefore, in requital for his kind- 
ness, and to set the conversation a-going, I took the best occasion I 
could to put him upon telling us the story of old Gantlett, which he 
always does with very particular concern. He traced up his descent 
on both sides for several generations, describing his diet and manner 
of life, with his several battles, and particularly that in which he fell. 
This Gantlett was a game cock, upon whose head the knight, in his 
youth, had won five hundred pounds, and lost two thousand. This 
naturally set the Major upon the account of Edgehill fight, and ended 
in a duel of Jack Ogle's. 

Old Reptile was extremely attentive to all that was said, though it 
was the same he had heard every night for these twenty years, and 
upon all occasions winked upon his nephew to mind what passed. 

This may suffice to give the world a taste of our innocent conver- 
sation, which we spun out until about ten of the clock, when my 
maid came with a lantern to light me home. I could not but reflect 
with myself, as I was going out, upon the talkative humour of old 
men, and the little figure which that part of life makes in one who 
cannot employ his natural propensity in discourses which would make 
him venerable. I must own, it makes me very melancholy in com- 
pany, when I hear a young man begin a story ; and have often observed, 
that one of a quarter of an hour long in a man of five-and-twenty, 
gathers circumstances every time he te'^s it, until it grows into a long 
Canterbury tale of two hours by that time he is threescore. 

The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old age is, to 
lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge and observation, as 
may make us useful and agreeable in our declining years. The mind 
of man in a long life will become a magazine of wisdom or folly, and 
will consequently discharge itself in something impertinent or improving. 
For which reason, as there is nothing more ridiculous than an old 
trifling story-teller, so there is nothing more venerable than one who 



552 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Jerrold. 

has turned his experience to the entertainment and advantage of 
mankind. 

In short, we, who are in the last stage of Hfe, and are apt to indulge 
ourselves in talk, ought to consider, if what we speak be worth being 
heard, and endeavour to make our discourse hke that of Nestor, which 
Homer compares to the flowing of honey for its sweetness. 

I am afraid I shall be thought guilty of this excess I am speaking of, 
when I cannot conclude without observing that Milton certainly 
thought of this passage in Homer, when, in his description of an 
eloquent spirit, he says, 

" His tongue dropp'd manna." 
— The Tatler. No. 132. Saturday, Feb. Ji, 1709-10. 



233.— CLOVERNOOK AND ITS INN. 

[D. Jerrold, 1803 — 1858. 

[Douglas Jerrold, born in London, Jan. 3, 1803, served a short time in the navy, 
was apprenticed to a printer, and first became known as the successful author of 
the drama " Black-Eyed Susan," brought out in 1829, which was followed by 
" The Rent Day." For a number of years he contributed to periodicals and 
newspapers, wrote some novels, and several pieces for the stage. Rejoined the staff 
of Punch, to which he contributed "Punch's Letters to his Son," "The Caudle 
Lectures," &c., when it was established in 1841, and for many years edited Lloyd's 
Weekly Newspaper. His most popular works are " Men of Character," which 
appeared in " Blackwood' in 1838 ; "A Man made of Money," in 1849 '> s"<i "The 
Chronicles of Clovernook," in 1846. " The Bubbles of a Day," in 1842, and "Time 
Works Wonders," produced in 1845, were his most successful comedies. His con- 
versational powers and quickness of repartee were very great. Douglas Jerrold died 
at Kilburn, June 8, 1857. His son, William Blanchard Jerrold, published " Life and 
Remains of Douglas Jerrold," in 1859; '^"'^ "Douglas Jerrold's Wit and Humour," 
1862.] 

We have yet no truthful map of England. No offence to the pub- 
lishers } but the verity must be uttered. We have pored and pon- 
dered, and gone to our sheets with weak, winking eyes, having vainly 
searched, we cannot trust ourselves to say how many hundred maps of 
our beloved land, for the exact whereabout of Clovernook. We cannot 
find it. More : we doubt — so imperfect are all the maps — if any 
man can drop his finger on the spot, can point to the blessed locality 
of that most blissful village. He could as easily show to us the 
hundred of Utopia j the glittering weathercocks of the New 
Atlantis. 

And shall we be more communicative than the publishers ? No ; 
the secret shall be buried with usj we will hug it vuider our shroud. 



Jerrold.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 553 

We have heard of shrewd, short-speeched men who were the hving 
caskets of some heahng jewel ; some restorative recipe to draw the 
burning fangs from gout ; some anodyne to touch away sciatica into 
the hthesomeness of a kid ; and these men have died, and have, to 
their own satisfaction at least, carried the secret into their coffins, as 
though the mystery would comfort them as they rotted. There have 
been such men ; and the black, begrimed father of all uncharitable- 
ness sits cross-legged upon their tombstones, and sniggers over 
them. 

Nevertheless, we will not tell to the careless and irreverent world — 
a world noisy with the ringing of shiUings — the whereabout of 
Clovernook. We might, would we condescend, give an all-sufficient 
reason for our closeness : we will do no such thing. No : the village 
is our own — consecrated to our own delicious leisure, when time runs 
by like a summer brook, dimpling and sweetly murmuring as it runs. 
We have the most potent right of freehold in the soil ; nay, it is our 
lordship. We have there droits du seigneur ; and in the very despotism 
of our ownership might, if we would, turn oaks into gibbets. Let 
this knowledge suffice to the reader j for we will not vouchsafe to him 
another pippin's-worth. 

Thus much, however, we will say of the history of Clovernook. 
There is about it a very proper mist and haziness 3 it twinkles far, far 
away through the darkness of time, like a taper through a midniglit 
casement. The spirit of fable that dallies with the vexed heart of 
man, and incarnates his dreams in living presences — for mightiest of 
the mighty is oft the muscle of fiction — fable says that Clovernook 
was the work of some sprite of Fancy, that in an idle and extrava- 
gant mood, made it a choice country seatj a green and flowery place, 
peopled with happy faces. And it was created, says fable, after this 
fashion. 

The sprite took certain pieces of old, fine linen, which were torn 
and torn, and reduced to a very pulp, and then made into a substance, 
thin and spotless. And then the sprite flew away to distant woods, 
and gathered certain things, from which was expressed a liquid of 
darkest dye. And then, after the old, time-honoured way, a living 
thing was sacrificed: a bird much praised by men at Michaelmas, fell 
with bleeding throat -, and the sprite, plucking a feather from the poor 
dead thing, waved and waved it, and the village of Clovernook grew 
and grew j and cottages, silently as trees, rose from the earth j and 
men and women came there by twos and fours ; and in good time 
smoke rose from chimneys, and cradles were rocked. And this, so 
saith fable, was the beginning of Clovernook. 

Although we will not let the rabble of the world know the where- 



Se,4 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Jerrold. 

about of our village — and by the rabble, be it understood, we do not 
mean the wretches who are guilty of daily hunger, and are condemned 
in the court of poverty of the high misdemeanour of patches and 
rags, — but we mean the mere money-changers, the folks who carry 
their sullen souls in the corners of their pockets, and think the site of 
Eden is covered with the Mint ; although we will not have Clovernook 
startled from its sweet, dreamy serenity — and we have sometimes 
known the very weasels in mid-day to doze there, given up to the 
delicious influence of the place — by the chariot-wheels of that stony- 
hearted old dowager. Lady Mammon, with her false locks and ruddled 
cheeks, — we invite all others to our little village j where they may 
loll in the sun or shade as suits them ; lie along on the green tufty 
sward, and kick their heels at fortune : where they may jig an evening 
dance in the meadows, and after retire to the inn — the one inn of 
Clovernook — gloritied under the sign of " Gratis !" 

INIatch us that sign if you can. What are your Georges and 
Dragons, your Kings' Heads, and Queens' Arms ; your Lions, Red, 
White, and Black; your Mermaids and your Dolphins, to that large, 
embracing benevolence — Gratis? Doth not the word seem to throw 
its arms about you wdth a hugging welcome ? Gratis ! It is the voice 
of Nature, speaking from the fulness of her large heart. The word 
is written all over the blue heaven. The health-giving air whispers it 
about us. It rides the sunbeam — (save when statesmen put a pane 
'twixt us and it). I'he lark trills it high up in its skyey dome; the 
little wayside flower breathes gratis from its pinky mouth; the bright 
brook murmurs it; it is written in the harvest moon. Look and 
move where we will, delights — all "gratis," all breathing and beaming 
beauty — are about us ; and yet how rarely do we seize the happiness, 
because, forsooth, it is a joy gratis ? 

But let us back to Clovernook. We offer it as a country tarrying- 
place for all who will accept its hospitality. We will show every 
green lane about it; every clump of trees ; every bit of woodland, 
mead, and dell. The villagers, too, may be found, upon acquaintance, 
not altogether boors. There are some strange folk among them. 
Men who have wrestled in the world, and have had their victories and 
their trippings-up ; and now they have nothing to do but keep their 
little bits of garden-ground pranked ^^'^th the earliest flowers ; their 
only enemies, weeds, slugs, and snails. Odd people, we say it, are 
amongst them. Men, whose minds have been strangely carved and 
fashioned by the world ; cut like odd fancies in walnut-tree ; but 
though curious and grotesque, the minds are sound, with not a worm- 
hole in them. And these men meet in summer under the broad 
mulberry-tree before the ** Gratis," and tell their stories — thoughts. 



Prideaux.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 555 

humours ; yea, their dreams. They have nothing to do but to con- 
sider that curious bit of clock-work, the mind, within them 3 and 
droll it sometimes is, to mark how they will try to take it to pieces, 
and tlien again to adjust its little wheels, its levers, and springs. — The 
Chronicles of Cloveniook ; with some Account of the Hermit of 
Bellyifuile. 



234.— THE TARGUMS OR TRANSLATIONS. 

[^'ery Rev. Dr. Prideaux, 1648 — 1724. 

[Humphrey Prideaux, descended from an ancient Cornish family, born at Padstow, 
May 3, 164S, was educated at Westminster School, and Christchurch, Oxford, where 
he took his B.A. degree in 1672. The publication of " Marmora Oxoniensia," an 
account of the Arandelian Marbles* in 1676, led to an introduction to Lord Chan- 
cellor Finch (afterwards Earl of Nottingham), who appointed him to the living of 
St. Clement's, Oxford, in 1679, and to a prebendal stall at Norwich in 1681. After 
holding various preferments, he was appointed to the archdeaconry^ of Suffolk in 
1688, and to the deanery of Norwich in 1702. His best known works are, "Life of 
Mahomet," published in 1697; "A Treatise on Tithes," in 1710; and " The Old 
and New Testament Connected in the History of the Jews and Neighbouring 
Nations, from the Declension of the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah to the Time of 
Christ," in 1715-18. Dean Prideaux died at Norwich Nov. i, 1724.] 

HiLLEL t bred up above a thousand scholars in the knowledge of the 
law, of which eighty were reckoned to be of greater eminency above 
the rest : for of them, say the Jewish writers, thirty were worthy on 
whom the divine glory should rest, as it did upon Moses ; and thirty 
for whom the sun should stand still, as it did for Joshua 3 and the 
twent)'- others were of a middhng size.^ The eminentest of them all was 
Jonathan Ben Uzziel, the author of the Chaldee paraphrase upon the 
Prophets j with whom was contemporar}'^ Oiikelos,§ who was author of 
the Chaldee paraphrase upon the Law : bat whether he was a scholar 
of Hillel's or no is not said. There are other Chaldee paraphrases 
besides these two ; but what, or how many they were, or for what use 



* Oxford or Arundelian Marbles received the latter name from Thomas, Earl of 
Arundel, who purchased them in 1624, and brought them to England in 1627. They 
were presented to the Universitv of Oxford in 1667. They contain some valuable 
inscriptions, giving a chronological compendium of an important period of Grecian 
history. 

t Hillel, the Elder or the Babylonian, called by Josephus PoUio, for many years 
President of the Great Sanhedrim, and one of the most distinguished of the Jewish 
Kabbis, is said to have liveil, like Moses, 120 years, viz., 40 years in ignorance of the 
law, 40 years as a pupil of the law, and 40 years as the highest master of the law. He 
flourished from B.C. 1 12 to A.D. 8. 

t Zacutus in Juchasin, Gedaliah in Shalsheleth Haccabbala, et David Ganz in 
Zemach Davitl. 

§ Onkelos, Jewish rabbi, flourished about the end of the second century. 



WB 



556 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Prideaux. 

they served, not being as yet any where mentioned in this work, it is 
proper I here give the reader an account of them. 

The Chaldee paraphrases are translations of the Scriptures of the 
Old Testament, made directly from the Hebrew text into the lan- 
guage of the Chaldseans ; which language was anciently used through 
all Assyria, Babylonia, Mesopotamia, Syria, and Palestine j and is still 
the language of the churches of the Nestorian and Maronite Christians 
in those eastern parts, in the same manner as the Latin is the language 
of the Popish churches here in the west. And therefore these para- 
phrases were called Targums,* because they were versions or transla- 
tions of the Hebrew text into this language : for the word Targura 
signifieth in Chaldee an interpretation or version of one language into 
another, and may properly be said of any such version or translation j 
but it is most commonly by the Jews appropriated to these Chaldee 
paraphrases : for being among them what were most eminently such, 
they therefore had this name by way of eminency especially given 
unto them. 

These Targums were made for the use and instruction of the vulgar 
Jews after their return from the Babylonish captivity : for although 
many of the better sort still retained the knowledge of the Hebrew 
language during that captivity, and taught it their children ; and the 
holy Scriptures that were delivered after that time, excepting only 
some parts of Daniel and Ezra and one verse in Jeremiah,t were all 
written therein 3 yet the common people by having so long conversed 
wirh the Babylonians, learned their language, and forgot their own. 
It happened indeed otherwise to the children of Israel in Egypt: for 
although they lived there above three times as long as the Babylonish 
captivity lasted, yet they still preserved the Hebrew language among 
them, and brought it back entire with them into Canaan. The reason 
of this was, in Egypt they all lived together in the land of Goshen j 
but on their being carried captive by the Babylonians, they were dis- 
persed all over Chaldasa and Assyria, and being there intermixed with 
the people of the land had their main converse with them, and there- 
fore were forced to learn their language, and this soon induced a disuse 
of their own among them j by which means it came to pass, that after 
their return the common people, especially those of them who had 
been bred up in that captivity, understood not the holy Scriptures in 



* Buxtorfii Lex. Rabbinicum, col. 2644. 
*f" The book of Daniel is written in Chaldee from the fourth verse of the second 
chapter to the end of the seventh chapter ; and the book of Ezra, from the eighth 
verse of the fourth chapter to the twenty-seventh verse of the seventh chapter. In the 
book of Jeremiah, the eleventh verse of the tenth chapter only is written in that language, 
all the rest of it is in Hebrew. 



Prideaux.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 557 

the Hebrew language, nor their posterity after them. And therefore 
when Ezra read the Law to the people,* he had several persons stand- 
ing by him well skilled in both the Chaldee and Hebrew languages, 
who interpreted to the people in Chaldee what he first read to them 
in Hebrew. And afterwards, when the method was established of 
dividing the Law into lifty-four sections, and of reading one of them 
every week in their synagogues, (according as hath been already de- 
scribed,) the same course of reading to the people the Hebrew text 
first, and then interpreting it to them in Chaldee, was still continued : 
for when the reader had read one verse in Hebrew, an interpreter 
standing by did render it in Chaldee, and then the next verse being 
read in Hebrew, it was in like manner interpreted in the same lan- 
guage as before, and so on from verse to verse was every verse alter- 
natively read, first in Hebrew, and then interpreted in Chaldee, to the 
end of the section ; and this first gave occasion for the making of 
Chaldee versions for the help of these interpreters. And they thence- 
forth became necessary, not only for their help in the public syna- 
gogues, but also for the help of the people at home in their families, 
that they might there have the Scriptures for their private reading in 
a language which they understood. 

For first, as synagogues multiplied among the Jews beyond the 
number of able interpreters, it became necessary that such versions 
should be made for the help of the less able : this was done at first 
only for the Law, because at first the Law only was publicly read in 
their synagogues till the persecution of Antiochus Epiphanes 3! but after 
that time lessons being read out of the Prophets in those religious as- 
semblies, as well as out of the Law, the same reason rendered it 
necessary that Chaldee versions should be made of these Scriptures 
also. And andly. The use of the people (which was the other reason 
for the composing of those versions) made this necessary for all the 
Scripture, as well as for the Law and the Prophets : for all Scripture 
being given for our edification, all ought for this end to have them in 
a language which they understood. For when God gave his Law unto 
Israel, he enjoined,! that they should have his commandments, statutes, 
and judgments always in their hearts, that they should meditate on 
them day and night, teach them their children, and talk of them 
when they did sit in their houses, and when they walked by the way. 



* Nehemiah viii. 4-8. 
f Antiochus Epiphanes, one of the Seleucidae, King of Syria, reigned from B.C. 175 
to B.C. 164. By his tyranny he excited the Jews to revolt; and an account of him is 
given in the books of the Maccabees in the Apocrypha. 

X Deut. vi. 6-9, et ch. xi. 18, 19, 20. 



'11^ 

mil 

I' 

mi 

Hi' 



S58 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Prideaux. 



and when they lay down, and when they rose up j and that all might 
be the better enabled to perform all this, it was strictly enjoined by a 
constitution of the elders from ancient times, that eyery man should 
haye by him at his home a copy of the holy Scriptures fairly written 
out, either by his own, or, if he could not write himself, by some other 
hand, for his instruction herein.* But how could this be done, if they 
had those Scriptures only in a language which they did not under- 
stand ? It was necessary therefore, that as they had the Hebrew text 
for the sake of the original, so also that they should haye the Chaldee 
version for the sake of helping them to understand it. Indeed the 
letter of the Law, which commands what I haye here mentioned, ex- 
tends no farther than to the fiye books of Moses 3 for no more of the 
holy Scriptures were then written, when that Law was giyen j and 
also the constitution aboye mentioned, which was superadded by the 
elders, is by positiye words limited thereto. But the reason of the 
thing reacheth the whole word of God : for since all of it is giyen for 
our instruction, we are all equally obliged to know each part of it, as 
well as the other. And therefore this caused, that at length the whole 
Scriptures were thus translated from the Hebrew into the Chaldaean 
language, for the sake of those who could not otherwise understand 
them : for to lock up from the people in an unknown language that 
word of God which was giyen to lead them to eyerlasting life, was a 
thing that was not thought agreeable either with reason or piety in 
those times. 

This work haying been attempted by diyers persons at different times, 
and by some of them with different yiews, (for some of them were 
written as yersions for the public use of the synagogues, and others as 
paraphrases and commentaries for the priyate instruction of the people,) 
hence it hath come to pass, that there were anciently many of these 
Targuras, and of different sorts, in the same manner as there anciently 
were many different versions of the same holy Scriptures into the 
Greek language, made with like different views ; of which we haye 
sufficient proof in the Octapla of Origen. No doubt anciently there 
were many more of these I'argums than we now know of, \^hich haye 
been lost in the length of time. Whether there were any of them of the 
same composure on the whole Scriptures is not anywhere said. Those 
that are now remaining were composed by different persons, and on 
different parts of Scripture, some on one part, and others on other 
parts, and are in all of these eight sorts following, i. That of Onkelos 
on the fiye books of Moses. 2. That of Jonathan Ben L^zziel on the 
Prophets, that is, on Joshua, Judges, the two books of Samuel, the two 



* Maimonides in Tephil. cap. 7. 



Fielding.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 559 

books of Kings, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the twelve Minor Pro- 
phets. 3. That on the Law, which is ascribed to Jonathan Ben Uzziel. 
4. The Jerusalem Targum on the Law. 5. The Targum on the five 
lesser books called the Megilloth, i. e. Ruth, Esther, Ecclesiastes, the 
Song of Solomon, and the Lamentations of Jeremiah. 6. The second 
Targum on Esther. 7. The Targum of Joseph the one-eyed* on the 
book of Job, the Psalms, and the Proverbs : and, 8. The Targum on 
the first and second book of Chronicles. On Ezra, Nehemiah, and 
Daniel, there is no Targum at all : the reason given by some for this is, 
because a great part of those books is written in the Chaldee language, 
and therefore there is no need of a Chaldee paraphrase upon them. 
This indeed is true for Daniel and Ezra, but not for Nehemiah ; for 
that book is all originally written in the Hebrew language. No doubt 
anciently there were Chaldee paraphrases on all the Hebrew parts of 
those books, though now lost. It was long supposed that there were 
no Targums on the two books of Chronicles,t because none such were 
known till they were lately published by Beckius| at Augsburg in 
Germany, that on the first book A.D. 1680, and that on the second 
A.D. 1683. — The Old and New Testament connected in the History of 
the Jews and neighbouring Nations, from the Declension of the Kingdoms 
of Israel and Judah to the Time of Christ. Part II. Book viii. 



235.— PARTRIDGE AT THE PLAY. 

[Henry Fielding, 1707 — 1754. 

[Henry Fielding was born at Sharpham Park, near Glastonbury, Somerset, on the 
22nd April, 1707. His father, a grandson of the Earl of Denbigh, was a general in 
the army, and his mother the daughter of a judge. He received the rudiments of his 
education at home, under a private tutor, the Rev. Mr. Oliver, who is said to be the 
original of Parson Trulliber, in "Joseph Andrews.'* After studying the law for two 
years at London, he passed the customary time of probation at the Temple, and was 
called to the bar. He commenced writing for the stage when about twenty years of 
age, and nearly all his plays and farces appeared between 1727 and 1736. That, like 
most modern dramatists, he adapted, though not freely, from the French, is proved 
by his comedy of "The Miser," which was taken from Moliere, and long retained 
possession of the stage. In burlesque, or mock tragedy as it was then called. Fielding 
was very successful; his "Tom Thumb" is, even now, occasionally represented. It 
is, however, by his novels that Fielding's great reputation is sustained. When, in 



* He is commonly called Josephus Caecus, or Josephus the Blind. This is not to 
be understood as if he were blind of both eyes, for then he could not have done this 
ivork. The word in Hebrew, by which he is so denominated, signifieth luscum, one 
that is blind of one eye, as well as ccecum, one that is blind of both eyes. 

t Luesden. in Philologo Hebraeo-mixto, dissertatione quinta, § 5. 
J Balthaser Becker, or Bekker, born in 1634, died June 11, 1698. 



s6o 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Fielding; 



1742, "Joseph Andrews" appeared, all the world acknowledged a new and original 
thinker, an apt delineator of character, and a humorist of the first order. With the 
"History of Tom Jones," published 1749, his mind seems to have attained its 
highest vigour. In this he has successfully copied the manner and emulated the 
humour of Cervantes. Fielding was rewarded with the office of acting magistrate in 
the Commission of the Peace for Middlesex, and he was very active in his endeavours 
to restrain the vices of his day. The emoluments of this office (about 300/. a year) 
were received from fees, which Fielding himself characterized as "the dirtiest money 
upon earth." Worn in mind, and shattered in frame by the liberties he had taken 
with his constitution, he was ultimately obliged to try the more genial climate of 
Lisbon; but in two months after his arrival he sank, breathing his last in the year 
1754, in the 48th year of his age.] 

In the first row of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her 
youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places. Partridge imme- 
diately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When 
the first music was played, he said it was a wonder how so many fid- 
dlers could play at one time without putting one another out. While 
the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, 
** Look, look, madam ! the very picture of the man in the end of the 
common-prayer book, before the gun- powder treason service." Nor 
could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, 
that here were candles enough burnt in one night to keep an honest 
poor family for a twelvemonth. 

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began. 
Partridge was all attention ; nor did he break silence till the entrance 
of the ghost, upon which he asked Jones, What that man was in the 
strange dress: "Something," said he, "hkewhat I have seen in a pic- 
ture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" Jonts answered, "That is the 
ghost." To which Partridge replied, with a smile, " Persuade me to 
that, sir, if you can. Though I cannot say I ever actually saw a ghost 
in my life, yet I am certain I should know one if 1 saw him, better 
than that comes to. No, no, sirj ghosts don't appear in such dresses as 
that neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the 
neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue till the scene 
between the Ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to 
Mr. Garrick which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a 
trembling that bis knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him 
what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon 
the stage ? " O la, sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told 
me. I am not afraid of anything, for I know it is but a play 3 and if 
it really was a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance and 
in so much company : and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only 
person." " Why who," cries Jones, " dost thou take to be such a 
coward here besides thyself?" " Nay, you may call me coward if you 
will 3 but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I 



Fielding.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 561 

never saw any man frightened in my life. Aye, aye ; go along with 
you ! Aye, to be sure ! Who's fool then ? Will you ? Lud have 
mercy upon such foolhardiness ! Whatever happens, it is good enough 
for you. Follow you ? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is 
the devil , for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases. Oh ! 
here he is again. — No farther ! No, you have gone far enough already, 
farther than I'd have or-one for all the kinor's dominions." Jones offered 
to speak, but Partridge cried, " Hush, hush, dear sir ! don't you hear 
him ?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his 
eyes fixed partly on the ghost, and partly on Hamlet, and with his 
mouth open ; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, 
succeeding likewise in him. 

When the scene was over, Jones said, " Why, Partridge, you exceed 
my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible." 
'■'Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the devil, I 
can't help it 5 but, to be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such 
things ; though I know there is nothing in them : not that it was the 
ghost that surprised me, neither ; for I should have known that to have 
been only a man in a strange dress : but when I saw the little man so 
frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me." "And dost 
thou imagine then. Partridge," cries Jones, " that he was really 
frightened?" "Nay, sir," said Partridge, " did not you yourself observe 
afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he 
was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him bv degrees, and 
he was struck dumb with soi-row, as it were, just as I should have 
been, had it been my own case ? But hush ! O la ! what noise is 
that ? There he is again ! Well, to be certain, though I know there 
is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those 
men are!" Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet — "Aye, you 
may draw your sword ; what signifies a sword against the power of 
the devil?" 

During the second act. Partridge made very few remarks. He 
greatly admired the fineness of the dresses ; nor could he help observing 
upon the king's countenance. "Well," said he, " how people may 
be deceived by faces ! Nulla Jides Jronti, is, I find, a true saying. 
Who would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever 
committed a murder ?" He then inquired after the ghost ; but Jones, 
who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction, 
than that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of 
fire. 

Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this : and now, when the 
ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, " There, sir, now ! 
what say you now ? is he frightened now, or no ? As much frightened 

o o 



Ill 



562 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Fielding. 

as you think me (and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears), I would 
not be in so bad a condition as what's-his-name, Sqnire Hamlet, is, 
there, for all the world. Bless me, what's become of the spirit ! As 
I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth!" " In- 
deed you saw right," answered Jones. '^ Well, well," cries Partridge, 
" I know it is only a play : and besides, if there was anything in all 
this. Madam Miller would not laugh so : for as to you, sir, you would 
not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person. There, there 
— ayey no .wonder you are in such a passion 3 shake the vile, wicked 
: wretch to pieces ! If she was my own -mother I should serve her so. 
*' I To be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings. 

Aye, go about your business j I hate the sight of you!" 

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Hamlet intro- 

j I duces before the king. This he did not at first understand, till Jones 

ji j explained it to him ; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of it, than 

r j he began to bless himself that he had never committed murder. Then 

; ' turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her if she did not imagine the 

I king looked as if he was touched ? " Though he is," said he, " a good 

! actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much 

to answer for as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher 

chair than he sits upon. No wonder he ran away — for your sake, I'll 

never trust an innocent face again." 

The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, 
who expressed much surprise at the number of skulls thrown upon the 
stage. To v^^hich Jones answered that it was one of the most famous 
burial-places about town. " No wonder, then," cries Partridge, " that 
the place is haanted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. 
I had a sexton, when I was a clerk, that should have dug three graves 
while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the 
first time he had ever had one in his hands. Aye, aye, you may 
sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe." Upon Hamlet's 
taking up the skull, he cried out — '' Well, it is strange to see how 
fearless some men are : I never could bring myself to touch 
anything belonging to a dead man on any account. He seemed 
frightened enough too at the ghost, I tliought. Nemo omnibus horis 
sapit.'" 

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play j at the 
end of which Jones asked him which of the players he liked best ? 
To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the ques- 
tion, *'The king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says 
Mrs. Miller, '' you are not of the same opinion with the town ; for they 
are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the best player who was 
ever on the stage." " He the best player !" cries Partridge^ with a 

!, 

ii 



Ramsay.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 563 

contemptuous sneer j " why, I could act as well as he myself. I am 
sure if I had seen a ghost,, I should have looked in the very same 
manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, 
as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he 
acted so fine, why. Lord help me ! any man, that is, any good man, 
that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I 
know you are only joking with me ; but, indeed, madam, though 
I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting before in 
the country 3 and the king for my money 3 he speaks all his words 
distinctly, half as loud again as the other. Anybody may see he is 
an actor." — Tom Jones. Book xvi., chapter v. 



236.— THE OLD SCOTTISH DOMESTIC SERVANT. 

[Very Rev. Dean Ramsay, 1793. 

[Edward Bannerman Ramsay, Dean of Edinburgh, was born about 1793. He 
graduated at Cambridge B.A. 1815, M.A. 1831. When Mr. Gladstone was 
installed as Lord Rector of the University of Edinburgh in 1859, ^^e degree of LL.D. 
was given to Dean Ramsay. He is the author of " A Memoir of Sir J. E. Smith/' a 
"Memoir of Dr. Chalmers," Sermons, and other religious works. But his most 
popular work is "Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character,"] 

In my own family I knew a case of a very long service, and where, no 
doubt, there was much interest and attachment 3 but it was a case 
where the temper had not softened under the influence of years, but 
had rather assumed that form of disposition which we denominate 
crusty. My grand-uncle. Sir A. Ramsay, died in 1806, and left a 
domestic who had been in his service since he was ten years of age : 
and being at the time of his master's death past fifty or well on to 
sixty, he must have been more than forty years a servant in the family. 
From the retired life my grand-uncle had been leading, Jamie Layal 
had much of his own way, and, like many a domestic so situated, 
he did not like to be contradicted, and, in fact, could not bear to be 
found fault with. My uncle, who had succeeded to a part of my 
grand-uncle's property, succeeded also to Jamie Layal, and from respect 
to his late master's memory, and Jamie's own services, he took him 
into his house, intending him to act as house servant. However, this 
did not answer, and he was soon kept on, more with the form than 
the reality of any active duty, and took any li^ght work that was going 
on about the house. In this capacity it was his daily task to feed a 
flock of turkeys which were growing up to maturity. On one occa- 
sion, my aunt having followed him in his work, and having observed 
such a waste of food that the ground was actually covered with grain 

002 



5 64 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ramsay. 

which they could not eat, and which would soon be destroyed and lost, 
naturally remonstrated, and suggested a more reasonable and provident 
supply. But all the answer she got from the offended Jamie was a 
bitter rejoinder, " Weel, then, neist time they sail get nane ava /" 
On another occasion a family from a distance had called whilst my 
uncle and aunt were out of the house. Jamie came into the parlour 
to deliver the cards, or to announce that they had called. My aunt, 
somewhat vexed at not having been in the way, inquired what message 
Mr. and Mrs. Innes had left, as she had expected one. " No ; no 
message." She returned to the charge, and asked again if they had 
not told him anything he was to repeat. Still, "No; no message." 
" But did they say nothing ? Are you sure they said nothing ?" Jamie, 
sadly put out and offended at being thus interrogated, at last burst 
forth, "They neither said ba nor bum," and indignantly left the room, 
banging the door after him. A characteristic anecdote of one of these 
old domestics I have from a friend who was acquainted with the par- 
ties concerned. The old man was standing at the sideboard and 
attending to the demands of a pretty large dinner party : the calls 
made for various wants from the company became so numerous and 
frequent that the attendant got quite bewildered, and lost his patience 
and temper ; at length he gave vent to his indignation in a remonstrance 
addressed to the whole company, " Cry a' thegither — that's the way to 
be served." 

I have two characteristic and dry Scottish answers, traditional in the 
J^othian family, supplied to me by the present excellent and highly- 
gifted young marquis. A Marquis of Lothian of a former generation 
observed in his walk two workmen very busy with a ladder to reach a 
bell, on which they next kept up a furious ringing. He asked what 
was the object of making such a din ; to which the answer was, " Ou, 
juist, my lord, to ca' the workmen together." '''Why, how many are 
there ?" asked his lordship. '' Ou, juist Sandy and me," was the quiet 
rejoinder. The same Lord Lothian, looking about the garden, directed 
his gardener's attention to a particular plum-tree, charging him to be 
careful of the produce of that tree, and send the whole of it in marked, 
as it was of a very particular kind. " Ou," said the gardener, " I'll do 
that, my lord 3 there's juist twa o' them." 



I have heard of an old Forfarshire lady who, knowing the habits of 
her old and spoilt servant, when she wished a note to be taken without 
loss of time, held it open and read it over to him, saying "There, noo, 
Andrew, ye ken a' that's in't ; noo dinna stop to open it, but just send 
it afl'." Of another servant, when sorely tried by an unaccustomed bustle 



Canning.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 565 

and hurry, a very amusing anecdote has been recorded. His mistress, 
a woman of high rank, who had been hving in much quiet and retire- 
ment for some time, was called upon to entertain a large party at 
dinner. She consulted with Nichol, her faithful servant, and all the 
arrangements were made for the great event. As the company were 
arriving, the lady saw Nichol running about in great agitation, and in 
his shirt sleeves. She remonstrated, and said that as the guests were 
coming in he must put on his coat. '' Indeed, my lady," was his ex- 
cited reply, " indeed there's sae muckle rinnin' here and rinnin' there, 
that I'm just distrackit. I hae cuist'n my coat and waistcoat, and faith 
I dinna ken how lang I can thole my breeks." There is often a 
ready wit in this class of character, marked by their replies. I have 
the following communicated from an ear-witness: *^ Weel, Peggy," 
said a man to an old farpi servant, " I wonder ye' re aye single yet !" 
'^ Me marry," said she, indignantly j " I wadna gie my single life for 
a' the double anes I ever saw." 

An old woman was exhorting a servant once about her ways. '' You 
serve the deevil," said she. "Me !" said the girl 5 " Na, na, I dinna 
serve the deevil j I serve ae single lady." 

A baby was out with the nurse, who walked it up and down the 
garden. '* Is't a laddie or a lassie?" said the gardener. '^ A laddie," 
said the maid. ''' Weel," says he, " I'm glad o' that, for there's ower 
mony women in the world." " Hech, man^" said Jess, " div ye no 
ken there's aye maist sawn o' the best crap ?" 

The answers of servants used curiously to illustrate habits and man- 
ners of the time — as the economical modes of her mistress' life were 
well touched by the lass who thus described her ways and domestic 
habits with her household: "She's vicious upo' the wark^ but eh, 
she's yary mysterious o' the victualling." — Reminiscences of Scottish 
Life and Character. 



237.— THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 
[The Right Hon. George Canning, 1770 — 1827. 
[George Canning ranks among the greatest statesmen, most distinguished politicians, 
and gifted orators of his countiy ; he also took honours as an author. He was born 
April nth, 1770, in London. His father was a man of literary abilities, but poor; 
after his death, his widow married an actor, and went upon the stage. The friends of 
Canning's father sent him to Winchester School, and afterwards to Oxford. There he 
soon distinguished himself as an orator, and, leaving college, entered at Lincoln's-inn 
with a view to practising at the bar. Being introduced by Mr. Pitt to the House of 
Commons, he abandoned the law for politics, and, supporting that minister, was re- 
warded by being made Under-Secretary of State. Canning won the affections of Miss 
Scott, daughter of General Scott, and married her with a fortune of 100,000/. After 



S66 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[Canning. 



filling most of the high offices of State, his laudable ambition was crowned by his 
being created Premier. He died at the age of 57, in 1827, from the effects of a 

cold caught while attending the Duke of York's funeral.] 

Friend of Humanity. 

Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? 
Rough is your road, your wheel is out of orders 
Bleak blows the blast — your hat has got a hole in't. 
So have your breeches. 

Wear}^ Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones. 
Who. in their coaches, roll along the turnpike- 
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, '' Knives and 
Scissors to grind, O !" 

Tell me. Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives ? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use you r 
Was it the squire, or parson of the parish. 

Or the attorney ? 

Was it the squire, for killing of his game ? or 
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining ? 
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little 
All in a lawsuit ? 

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids. 
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your 
Pitiful story. 

Knife-grinder. 

Story ; God bless you, I have none to tell, sir j 
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 
Torn in a scuffle. 

Constables came up for to take me into 
Custody ; they took me before the justice j 
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish 

Stocks for a vagrant. 

I should be glad to drink your honour's health in 
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence 3 
But, for my part, I never love to meddle 

With politics, sir. 



Heber.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 567 

Friend of Humanity. 

I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee hanged first — 
Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance — 
Sordid, unfeeling reprobate, degraded, 

Spiritless outcast ! 

\Kichs the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a 
transport of repul'lican enthusiasm and universal philan- 
thropy. 

— The Antijacolin, i/yS. 



238.— TIME AND ETERNITY. 

[Bishop Heber, 1783 — 1826. 

[Regin'ald Heber was born at Malpas, Cheshire, 1783. He took holy orders in 1807, 
and soon became distin^ished as a writer. He contributed to the Quarterly Reviezc, 
edited Jeremy Taylor's works, and published a volume of poems and translations for 
Weekly Church Senice. He was ordained Bishop of Calcutta in 1S22; the 
diocese at that time extended over the whole of India, Ceylon, and Australia. In 
1824 he began a visitation of this immense diocese; and his travels through Bengal to 
Bombay occupied eleven months. His journal of this journey — a very delightful 
picture of India — is published in Murray's Home and Colonial Library. The Bishop 
also \-isited Ceylon and Madras, and died suddenly at Trichinopoly in his bath, 
1826.] 

There is an ancient fable told by the Greek and Roman Churches, 
which, fable as it is, may for its beauty and singularity well deserve 
to be remembered, that in one of the earliest persecutions to which 
the Christian world was exposed, seven Christian youths sought con- 
cealment in a lonely cave, and there, by God's appointment, fell into 
a deep and death-like slumber. They slept, the legend runs, two 
hundred years, till the greater part of mankind had received the faith 
of the Gospel, and that Church which they had left a poor and 
afflicted orphan, had " kings" for her " nursing fathers, and queens" 
for her "nursing mothers." They then at length awoke, and enter- 
ing into their native Ephesus, so altered now that its streets were 
altogether unknown to them, they cautiously inquired if there were 
any Christians in the city? " Christians!" was the answer, "we are 
all Christians here!" and they heard with a thankful joy the change 
which, since they left the world, had taken place in the opinions of 
its inhabitants. On one side they were shown a statel) fabric adorned 
with a gilded cross, and dedicated, as they were told, to the worship 
of their crucified Master ; on another, schools for the public exposi- 
tion of those Gospels, of which so short a time before, the bare pro- 
fession was proscribed and deadly. But no fear was now to be enter- 




568 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Heber. 

tained of those miseries which had encircled the cradle of Christianityj 
no danger now of the rack, the lions, or the sword j the emperor and 
his prefects held the same faith with themselves, and all the wealth of 
the east, and all the valour and authority of the western world, were 
exerted to protect and endow the professors and the teachers of their 
rehgion. 

But joyful as these tidings must at first have been, their further 
inquiries are said to have been met with answers which very deeply 
surprised and pained them. They learned that the greater part of 
those who called themselves by the name of Christ, were strangely 
regardless of the blessings which Christ had bestowed, and of the 
obligations which He had laid on His followers. They found that, as 
the world had become Christian, Christianity itself had become 
worldly ; and wearied and sorrowful they besought of God to lay them 
asleep again, crying out to those who followed them, " You have shown 
us many heathens who have given up their old idolatry without gain- 
ing anything better in its room ; many who are of no religion at all -, 
and many with whom the religion of Christ is no more than a cloak 
of licentiousness 5 but where, where are the Christians?" And thus 
they returned to their cave ; and there God had compassion on them, 
releasing them, once for all, from that world for whose reproof their 
days had been lengthened, and removing their souls to the society of 
their ancient friends and pastors, the martyrs and saints of an earlier 
and a better generation. 

The admiration of former times is a feeling at first, perhaps, engrafted 
on our minds by the regrets of those who vainly seek in the evening 
of life, for the sunny tints which adorned their morning landscape j 
and who are led to fancy a deterioration in surrounding objects, when 
the change is in themselves, and the twilight in their own powers of 
perception. It is probable that, as each age of the individual or the 
species is subject to its peculiar dangers, so each has its peculiar and 
compensating advantages ; and that the difficulties which, at different 
periods of the world's duration, have impeded the believer's progress 
to heaven, though in appearance equally various, are, in amount, very 
nearly equal. It is probable that no age is without its sufficient share 
of offences, of judgments, of graces, and of mercies, and that the 
corrupted nature of mankind was never otherwise than hostile or 
indiff^erent to the means which God has employed to remedy its misery. 
Had we lived in the times of the infant Church, even amid the blaze 
of miracle on the one hand, and the chastening fires of persecution on 
the other, we should have heard, perhaps, no fewer complaints of the 
cowardice and apostacy, the dissimulation and murmuring inseparable 
from a continuance of public distress and danger, than we now hear 



Ruskin.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 569 

regrets for those days of wholesome affliction, when the mutual love 
of believers was strengthened by their common danger ; when their 
want of worldly advantages disposed them to regard a release from the 
world with hope far more than with apprehension, and compelled the 
Church to cling to her Master's cross alone for comfort and for succour. 

Still, however, it is most wonderful, yea rather by this very con- 
sideration is oiTr wonder increased at the circumstance, that in any or 
every age of Christianity such inducements and such menaces as the 
religion of Christ displays, should be regarded with so much indiffe- 
rence, and postponed for objects so trifling and comparatively worth- 
less. If there were no other ditFerence but that of duration between 
the happiness of the present life and of the life which is to follow, or 
though it were allowed us to beheve that the enjoyments of earth 
were, in every other respect, the greater and more desirable of the 
two, this single consideration of its eternit}^ would prove the wisdom 
of making heaven the object of our more earnest care and concern ; 
of retaining its image constantly in our minds ; of applying ourselves 
with a more excellent zeal to everything which can help us in its 
attainment, and of esteeming all things as less than worthless which 
are set in comparison with its claims, or which stand in the way of its 
purchase. 

Accordingly, this is the motive which St. Paul assigns for a con- 
tempt of the sutferings and pleasures, the hopes and fears, of the life 
which now is, in comparison with the pleasures and sufferings, the 
fears and hopes, which are, in another life, held out to each of us. 
And it is a reason which must carry great weight to the mind of every 
reasonable being, inasmuch as any thing which may end soon, and 
must end some time or other, is, supposing all other circumstances 
equal, or even allowing to the temporal good a \ery large preponde- 
rance of pleasure, of exceedingly less value than that which, once 
attained, is ahke safe from accident and decay, the enjoyment of 
which is neither to be checked by insecurit}', nor palled by long pos- 
session, but which must continue thenceforth in everlasting and incor- 
ruptible blessedness, as surely as Gk)d Himself is incorruptible and 
everlasting. — Sermon Preached at Lincoln s Inn, 1823. 



239.— VENICE. 

[John Ruskiv, 1819. 

fJuHS RusKis* was bom in London in tSiQ : he was educated at Oxford, and studied 
the pictorial art under Copley Fielding; and J. D. Harding. A pamphlet in defence 
of Turner and the modern English school of landscape painting was his first literary 
effort ; it attracted great attention, and eventually swelled into his now standard 
work, the " Modem Painters." After a lengthened tour in Italy, Mr. Ruskin pub- 



570 TEE EKERY-DAY BOOK [£«&». 

lished (1849; ^^ " Seven Lamps of Architecture/^ wMda W3» MkMcd im 1851 bf 
the " Stones of Venice.'' He has also contributed maaay fapecs ts» tihe Qauarterhf 
and other high-class periodicals.] 

And now come with me^ f or I iiave kept j'-ou t:: !'-.-r:^':~ ---:' 
gondola J come with me, on an autamnal morning. - , . : ^ - •: 

gates of Padua, and let us take the broad road leading lowanli ; : . 
It lies level;, for a league or two, between its elms anil vine fe: : : 
laden, their thin leaves veined into scarlet hectic, and tibear '. . ;■: 
deepened into gloomy blue ; then mounts an embaBknaeot £'. - 
Brenta, and runs between the river and the broad phm^wbScl 
to the north in endless lines of mulberry and n^s'ze. The Br-: 
slowly, but strongly J a muddy volume cf ; \ 

neither hastens nor slackens, but glides hes' ._ -, ; • ; ; ._: --. \ ■ . , , : 
banks, with here and there a short, babbling eddy twiaCed for an an- 
stant into its opaque surface, and vanishing, as if 6o.^"•r-''^^rl?r >ig,3 hp^^n 
dragged into it and gone down. Dusty and shade.' : i ■ :■. 

along the djke on its northern side 3 and the tail wi^.wc u.^/.. c: .', . : 
is seen trembling in the heat mist far away, and i^ver seesri ; : - 
than it did at first. Presently, you pass one of the rcmci: 
" villas on the Brenta :" a glaring, spectral shell of brick a:. . - . . , 
its windows with painted architraves like picture-frajiaes, aiDc i w , -- 
)'ard paved with pebbles in front of it, all burning m the duck , \ \ : 
the feverish sunshine, but fenced from the high road, for «««gnTfar-<^,fif 
sake, with goodly posts and chains 5 then another, of Suew Goduc, 
with Chinese variations, painted red and green 5 a third, compoied fiir 
the greater part of dead wall, with fictitious window? painted n p o i i it, 
each with a pea-green blind, and a classical architri ; - , ;': ■.-:-.- 
tive 3 and a fourth, with stucco figures set on the top . ^ • - 

some antique, like the kind to be seen at the comer 
and some of clumsy grotesque dwarfs, with fat boc^, 
This is the architecture to which her studies of tl.-. 
conducted modem Italy. The sun climb- -•-- " 
intense white the walls of the little piazzi 
horses. Another dreary stage among the !.,.,■- 
Brenta, forming irregular and half-stagnant canal-. 
more villas on the other side of them, but these of iixt oia v tfueuaii 
t}'pe, which we may have recognised before at Padua, and rinking iasH 
into utter ruin, black, and rent, and lonely, set cksse to the edge of the 
dull water, with what were once small gardens be^de Haesn^ Impaiilfd 
into mud, and with blighted fragments of giaaried bedgies and broken 
stakes for their fencings and here and thtaie a lew fiagmenls of marble 
steps, which have once given them graceful acoen fsam. the water's 
edge, DOW bettling into the mud in broken j<nnts, all adope^ and diippesj 



Ruskin.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 571 

with green weed. At last the road tarns sharply to the north, and 
there is an open space, covered with bent grass, on the right of it : but 
do not look that way. Five minutes more, and we are in the upper 
room of the little inn at Mestre, glad of a moment's rest in shade. The 
table is (always I think) covered with a cloth of nominal white and 
perennial grey, with plates and glasses at due intervals, and smnll loaves 
of a peculiar white bread made with oil, and more like knots of 
flour than bread. The view from its balcony is not cheerful : a 
narrow street, with a solitary brick church and barren campanile on 
the other side of it ; and some conventual buildings, with a few crimson 
remnants of fresco about their windows j and, between them and the 
street, a ditch with some slow current in it, and one or two small 
houses beside it, one with an arbour of roses at its door, as in an 
English tea-garden j the air, however, about us having in it nothing of 
roses, but a close smell of garlic and crabs, warmed by the smoke of 
various stands of hot chestnuts. There is much vociferation also going 
on beneath the window respecting certain wheelbarrows which are in 
rivalry for our baggage : we appease their rivalry with our best patience, 
and follow them down the narrow street. We have but walked some 
two hundred yards when we come to a low wharf or quay, at the ex- 
tremity of a canal, with long steps on each side down to the water, 
which latter we fancy for an instant has become black with stagnation : 
another glance undeceives us, — it is covered with the black boats of 
Venice. We enter one of them, rather to try if they be real boats or 
not, than with any definite purpose, and glide away ,- at first feeling as 
if the water were yielding continually beneath the boat and letting her 
sink into soft vacancy. It is something clearer than any water we 
have seen lately, and of a pale greeny the banks only two or three 
feet above it, of mud and rank grass, with here and there a stunted tree j 
gliding swiftly past the small casement of the gondola, as if they were 
dragged by upon a painted scene. Stroke by stroke, we count the 
plunges of the oar, each heaving up the side of the boat slightly as her 
silver beak shoots forward. We lose patience, and extricate ourselves 
from the cushions : the sea air blows keenly by, as we stand leaning 
on the roof of the floating cell. In front, nothing to be seen but long 
canal and level bank 3 to the west, the tower of Mestre is loweringfast, 
and behind it there have risen purple shapes, of the colour of dead rose- 
leav^es, all round the horizon, feebly defined against the afternoon sky, 
— the Alps of Bassano. Forward still : the endless canal bends at last^ 
and then breaks into intricate angles about some low bastions, now 
torn to pieces and staggering in ugly rents towards the water, — the 
bastions of the fort of Malghera. Another turn, and another perspec- 
tive of canal j but not interminable. The silver beak cleaves it fast, — 



572 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Melville. 

it widens ; the rank grass of the banks sinks lower, and at last dies in 
tawny knots along an expanse of weedy shore. Over it, on the right, 
but a few years back, we might have seen the lagoon stretching to the 
horizon, and the warm southern sky bending over Malamocco to the 
sea. Now we can see nothing but what seems a low and monotonous 
dockyard wall, with flat arches to let the tide through it ; — this is the 
railroad bridge, conspicuous above all things. But at the end of those 
dismal arches there rises, out of the wide water, a straggling line of low 
and confused brick buildings, which, but for the many towers which 
are mingled among them, might be the suburbs of an English manu- 
facturing town. Four or five domes, pale, and apparently at a greater 
distance, rise over the centre of the line j but the object which first 
catches the eye is a sullen cloud of black smoke brooding over the 
northern half of it, and which issues from the belfry of a church. It 
is Venice. — Stones of Venice, vol. i. 



240.— DARK JOHN OF THE GLEN. - 

[Whyte Melville, 1821, 

[George John Whyte Melville, the well-known contributor to Eraser and 
Blackwood's Magazine, and the author of several sporting novels, including 
" Digby Grand/' " Tilbury Nogo," " Good for Nothing," " Holmby House," &c. 
was born 1821. He is the eldest son of Major Whyte Melville, of St. Andrew's, 
Flintshire; he entered the army in 1839, ^^^ became Captain in the Coldstream 
Guards in 1846. He retired from the army in 1849, two years after his marriage, and, 
blending literature with the pursuits of a country gentleman, has won a well-earned 
and enduring reputation.] 

Six mountain-miles had we to trudge home in the dark, and no pony 
to ride this tlmej but, after such a day's sport, who would feel beat ? 
And then the relief of getting upon a road, no matter what sort of 
one, after moiling all day up and dov/n hill, working back, shoulders, 
loins, and lungs, is the next thing to an arm-chair, so we lit our cigars, 
and steamed away merrily, beguiling the distance with many a pleasant 
jest and oft-told tale. 

" Ye will see where there is a grey rock above yon knowe, wast of 
the birches — no, ye will not see the grey rock, but ye will see a bare 
place in the heather. Aweel," began Sandy, between the puffs of the 
shortest and blackest of cutty-pipes, which seemed to grow to his 
teeth J and forthwith he related to us a plaintive tale, which, tragical 
as was its termination, was somewhat spoiled in the sentiment to his 
hearers by the language in which it was couched, being translated into 
the "other tongue," as Sandy called it, out of the metaphorical dialect 
of Ossian j but the substance of his story was melancholy enough. It 



Melville.] OF MODERX LITERATL'RE. 573 

appears that when Sandy was a " bit laddie," as he called it, there were 
two brothers of the name of Connel living in the Glen : stout, active 
hiU-men were they both, and employed in looking after the game, 
destroying the vermin, and keeping down the rabbits. John — or, 
*'Dark John," as they called him — the eldest, was a wild, headstrong, 
good-humonred fellow, with but little of the proverbial caution of his 
nation, and a tendency to fun and frolic, of which even an Irishman 
need not have been ashamed. There was not his equal in the Strath 
at putting the stone, tossing the '* caber," dancing the Highland fling, 
and all the other accomplishments of a mountaineer ; whilst Angus, 
the younger one, was of a more reflective turn of mind, and delighted 
in passing Jiis hours alone upon the hill, or wandering by the loch. 
He was supposed to know most concerning the habits of deer, to be 
the wariest stalker, and the best fisherman of all the inhabitants of the 
Strath; and a good-looking, quiet lad he was, with a degree of deter- 
mination and pluck concealed beneath his mild exterior that a stranger 
would hardly have given him credit for. In fact, Sandy who knew 
them both, was of opinion that, where "heart," as he caUed it, was 
wanted — signifying courage — Angus was more to be depended on than 
his boisterous brother. The fair sex were not so very plentiful in the 
glen, and most of the specimens were somewhat tough, smoke-dried, 
and stricken in years -, but Agnes, the daughter of old Peter Cameron, 
the publican, needed not such foils as the ancient crones about her to 
be reckoned the flower of the whole coimtry-side. At kirk and 
market, Agnes was the acknowledged beauty, and as good as she was 
bonny. Many a lad, both up and down the glen, was sighing for 
Agnes : but she never so much as looked over her shoulder at one of 
them : and although a lassie that knew her most intimately alflrmed, 
as she told Sandy, that Dark John Connel was the fortunate suitor, it 
was certain that no one had ever seen her bestow the slightest mark 
of her favour on the jovial forester, nor had that worthy himself been 
ever heard to boast that Agnes would come to his whistle, as he called 
it — a note which, by his own account, caused half the lasses in broad 
Scotland to come trooping over moss and heather in his wake. Never- 
theless, Dark John was the man 3 and in vain did the gende Angus, 
w^hose heart had been long given to this mountain-daisy, woo and strive 
to win her in his homely way. AVho can explain the wa}-ward course 
of a woman's fancy r John, who was not much given to the softer 
emotions, liked the lass well enough, as he himself said, and it is cer- 
tain that he respected her more than the rest of her sex ; btit as for the 
sort of passionate love which she had conceived for him, and which 
poor Angus suflereJ for her, he had it not to give. Things went on 
in this way, somewhat al'ter the fashion of Stones popular picture of 



574 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Melville. 

"Cross Purposes," till poor Angus, wearied with his unsuccessful suit, 
heart-sick and desolate, determined to "take the shilling," and strive 
to forget his love and his native glens in the columns of a Highland 
regiment, then quartered in a town some thirty miles over the hills 
from his abode. It was during the heat of the war ; and there was no 
fear of a stalwart, clean-limbed youth like poor Angus being refused. 
Everything was settled for his departure ; and one fine morning in 
October, the embryo soldier started off on his career, accompanied by 
his brother to see him over the first few miles of his journey. They 
were the best of friends, those two j not even the affection borne by 
the one for her who loved the other, had been able to sow dissension 
between the brothers ; and often had the elder, in his rough, good- 
humoured way, endeavoured to dissuade Angus from his purpose of 
enlisting. They started accordingly, like true Highlanders, " shoulder 
to shoulder" — Angus more cheerful than he had been for months, and 
John, with his gun poised on his broad shoulder, and his brother's 
bundle in his hand, careless, merry, and swaggering as usual. Sandy 
saw them as they passed his bothy. Alas ! he never saw either of 
them again alive. The following morning he went through the knoll 
of birches he had pointed out to me, to look at his traps j and his 
attention was arrested by some hoodie-crows circling and wheeling in 
the air over an object in the heather some distance ahead of him. He 
walked on, thinking it might be a dead sheep, or some stricken stag 
who had staggered there from the forest with his death-wound. 
Imagine how his blood curdled when he came upon the body of Dark 
John lying stiff and stark, with his gun by his side ! The whole charge 
had passed through his broad chest, in a wound you might have put 
your hand in, and he had been dead several hours. Sandy carried him 
on his back to his father's house ; and as an over-ruling Providence 
willed it, the first person he met was Agnes Cameron, as he toiled 
down the path with his ghastly burden. Often has he prayed that 
never again might he hear such a scream as burst from that poor girl's 
throat. It was too much for a woman to bear 3 and when at length 
Sandy succeeded in getting some assistance, they carried her home a 
raving maniac. With the wildest gestures, she denounced Angus as 
the murderer of his brother — "her John, Dark John, the loved of her 
heart." She would share his grave — was he not her own ? And then, 
with a burst of fearful laughter, she spoke of him as still alive, merry, 
and dancing at their weddings and called to her father, and the 
minister, and her neighbours to see how happy she was. Happy, poor 
girl ! before another autumn shed its leaves, she was at rest in her 
grave ; and many an eye was wet, and many a cheek pale, amongst 
the kind-hearted mountaineers who bore her to her last home. Many 



Burritt.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 575 

were the different opinions in the glen as to the cause of poor John 
Connel's death -, but he who could alone have cleared it up was 
drowned some two months afterwards, in embarking for foreign service ; 
and the simple and primitive inhabitants of the glen had no means of 
knowing whether Angus had ever been made aware of his brother's 
death, or whether he knew too well that brother's fate, and sank into 
the ocean stained with a brother's blood. I must saj for Sandy that 
he put the more charitable construction upon the facts, and seemed to 
look upon the catastrophe as an accident that must have happened after 
the brothers had parted, as it proved, for ev^er. 

Ere the stor)^ was concluded, we were long past the spot that Sandy 
had first pointed out to us ; and before we had done discussing the 
details of the tragedy, the lights were twinkling in the lodge in front 
of us ; and thus ended my first day's sport in the Highlands of 
Scotland. — Tiltury Kogo. 



241.— THE NATURAL BRIDGE; OR, ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST. 

[Elihu Burritt, 1811. 

[Elihu Burritt, the celebrated "learned blacksmith," was born in Connecticut, 
U.S., in 1 811. He received an ordinary' education until he was sixteen, when, his 
father d}ing, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith. Devoting all his spare hours to 
the study of languages, for which he appears to have been gifted with a peculiar 
aptitude, he ultimately gained the mastery of Latin, French, Spanish, Hebrew, 
Flemish, Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, Gaelic, Celtic, and Russian. In 1846 he left 
America for England, and commenced agitating his " League of Universal Brother- 
hood" — a Utopian idea for the abolition of war throughout the world — and has 
since found congenial employment as a lecturer and journalist.] 

The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Virginia. 
There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up 
with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks, which the Almighty 
bridged over those everlasting butments, " when the morning stars 
sang together." The little piece of sky spanning those measureless 
piers is full of stars, although it is mid-day. It is almost five hundred 
feet from where they stand, up those perpendicular bulwarks of lime- • 
stone to the key of that vast arch, which appears to them only the ^ 
size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impres- 
sive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down the channel. 
The sun is darkened, and the boys have uncovered their heads, as if 
standing in the presence chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth. 
At last this feeling begins to wear away 3 they look around them, and 
find that others have been there before them. They see the names of 
hundreds cut in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes over 



576 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Burritt. 

their young hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. 
"What man has done, man can do/' is their watchword, while they 
draw themselves up, and carve their names a foot above those of a 
hundred full-grown men who have been there before them. 

They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion, except one, 
whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten truth, that there is 
" no royal road to learning." This ambitious youth sees a name just 
above hi-s reach — a name which will be green in the memory of the 
world when those of Alexander, Caesar, and Bonaparte shall rot in 
oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before he marched with 
Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there and left his name, a 
foot above any of his predecessors. It was a glorious thought to 
w^rite his name side by side with that great father of his country. He 
grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and clinging to a little jutting 
crag, he cuts again into the limestone, about a foot above where he 
stands ; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. 'Tis a 
dangerous adventure ; but as he puts his feet and hands into those 
gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full length, he finds him- 
self a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall. While 
his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he 
cuts his name in wide capitals, large and deep, in that flinty album. 
His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new 
created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and 
again he carves his name in larger capitals. This is not enough ; heed- 
less of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. 
The gradations of his ascending scale grow wider apart. He measures 
his length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax 
weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. He 
now for the first time casts a look beneath him. Had that glance 
lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. He clings 
with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful 
abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exertion, 
and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to 
which he is exposed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He 
can hear the voices, but not the words of his terror-stricken com- 
panions below. What a moment ! what a meagre chance to escape 
destruction ! there is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his 
hands into the same niche with his feet, and retain his slender hold a 
moment. His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful 
dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that ''freeze their young 
blood." He is too high to ask for his father and mother, his brothers 
and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of 
his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind, he bounds 



Burritt.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. , 577 

down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his 
father's hearthstone. 

Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds 
standing in that rocky channel, and hundreds on the bridge above, all 
holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor 
boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. 
He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with 
all the energy of despair — " William ! William ! Don't look down ! 
Your mother, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here praying for you ! 
Don't look down! Keep your eyes towards the top!" The boy 
didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint towards heaven, and 
his young heart on him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife. 
He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that 
remove him from the reach of human help from below. How care- 
fully he uses his wasting blade ! How anxiously he selects the softest 
places in that vast pier ! How he avoids every flinty grain ! How he 
economizes his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain he 
cuts. How every motion is watched from below ! There stand his 
father, mother, brother, and sister, on the very spot where, if he falls, 
he will not fall alone. 

The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty 
additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds himself directly 
under the middle of that vast arch, of rock, earth, and trees. He 
must cut his way in a new direction, to get from this overhanging 
mountain. The inspiration of hope is in his bosom ; its vital heat is 
fed by the increasing shout of hundreds perched upon cliffs, trees, and 
others who stand with ropes in their hands upon the bridge above, or 
with ladders below. Fifty more gains must be cut before the longest 
rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the lime- 
stone. The boy is emerging painfully foot by foot, from under that 
lofty arch. Spliced ropes are in the hands of those who are leaning 
over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all will 
be over. That blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy's head 
reels ; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying 
in his heart, his life must hang upon the next gain he cuts. That 
niche is his last. At the last flint gash he makes, his knife — his 
faithful knife — falls from his little nerveless hand, and ringing along 
the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of 
despair runs like a death-knell through the channel below, and all is 
still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the 
devoted boy lifts his devoted heart and closing eyes to commend his 
soul to God. 'Tis but a moment — there! one foot swings oft'! — he 
is reeling, trembling — toppling over into eternity ! — Hark ! — a shout 

p p 



575 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[George Eliot, 



falls on his ears from above ! The man who is lying with half his 
length over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and 
shoulders. Quick as thought, the noosed rope is within reach of the 
sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint convulsive effort, the 
swooning boy drops his arm into the noose. Darkness comes over 
him, and with the words " God!" and '''mother!" whispered on his 
lips just loud enough to be heard in heaven — the tightening rope lifts 
him out of his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is 
dangling over that fearful abyss ; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches 
down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the 
tearful, breathless multitude — such shouting ! and such leaping and 
weeping for joy never greeted a human being so recovered from the 
yawning gulf of eternity. — Sparks frorn the Anvil. 



^ 



■.I I 



242.— MRS. POYSER SPEAKS HER MIND TO THE SQUIRE, 

[George Eliot, 

[George Eliot is the nam de plume of a lady well known in literary circles, but as 
she chooses to write anonymously, we may not divulge her secret, if secret it be. 
" Adam Bede," her most celebrated novel, is full of highly characteristic sketches of 
character, and was a great success. It was dramatized for the Surrey Theatre, and made 
a most effective drama. She has since written "The Mill on the Floss," "Silas 
Marner," and " Romola," works which have stamped her as the best novelist of the 
age.] 

'' Ah, now this I like," said Mr, Donnithorne, looking round at the 
damp temple of cleanliness,* but keeping near the door. " I'm sure I 
should like my breakfast better if I knew the butter and cream came 
from this dairy. Thank you, that really is a pleasant sight. Unfor- 
tunately, my slight tendency to rheumatism makes me afraid of damp 3 
I'll sit down in your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you 
do ? In the midst of business, I see, as usual. I've been looking at 
your wife's beautiful dairy — the best manager in the parish, is she 
not?" 

Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat, with 
a face a shade redder than usual from the exertion of '' pitching." As 
he stood — red, rotund, and radiant before the small, wiry, cool old 
gentleman — he looked like a prize apple by the side of a withered 
crab. 

*' Will you please to take this chair, sir?" he said, lifting his father's 
arm-chair forward a little j *' you'll tind it easy." 

'' No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs," said the old gentleman, 
seating himself on a small chair near the door. " Do you know, Mrs. 



Mrs. Poyser's dairy. 



George Eliot.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 579 

Poyser — sit down, pray, both of you — I've been far from contented 
for some time with Mrs. Satchell's dairy management. I think she 
has not a good method, as you have." 

'^Indeed, sir, I can't speak to that," said Mrs. Poyser, in a hard 
voice, rolUng and unrolUng her knitting, and looking icily out of the 
window, as she continued to stand opposite the Squire. Poyser might 
sit down if he liked, she thought: she wasn't going to sit down, as if 
she'd give in to any such smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who 
looked and felt the reverse of icy, did sit down in his three-cornered 
chair. 

" And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let the 
Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I'm tired of having a farm on 
my own hands — nothing is made the best of in such cases, as you 
know. A satisfactory baihfF is hard to find ; and I think you and I, 
Poyser, and your excellent wife here, can enter into a little arrange- 
ment in consequence, which will be to our mutual advantage." 

"Oh," said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of imagina- 
tion as to the nature of the arrangement. 

'' If I'm called upon to speak, sir," said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing 
at her husband with pity at his softness, '^'^you know better than me 5 
but I don't see what the Chase Farm is t' us — we've cumber enough 
wi' our own farm. Not but what I'm glad to hear o' anybody re- 
spectable coming into the parish ; tbere's some as ha' been brought in 
as hasn't been looked on i' that character." 

"You're likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assure 
you. Such a one as you will feel glad to have accommodated by the 
little plan I'm going to mention, especially as I hope you will find it 
as much to your own advantage as his." 

" Indeed, sir, if it's anything t' our advantage, it'll be the first ofl"'er 
o' the sort I've beared on. It's them as take advantage that get ad- 
vantage i' this world, /think} folks have to wait long enough afore it's 
brought to 'em." 

"The fact is, Poyser," said the Squire, ignoring Mrs. Peyser's theory 
of worldly prosperity, "there is too much dairy land, and too little 
plough land, on rhe Chase Farm, to suit Thurle's purpose — indeed, he 
will only take the farm on condition of some change in it j his wife, it 
appears, is not a clever dairy-woman like yours. Now, the plan I'm 
thinking of is to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the 
Hollow Pastures, you might increase your dairy, which must be so 
profitable under your wife's management : and I should request you, 
Mrs. Poyser, to supply my house with milk, cream, and butter at the 
market prices. On the other hand, Poyser, you might let Thurle have 
the Lower and Upper Ridges, which really with our wet seasons, 

p p 2 



58o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [George Eliot. 

would be a good riddance for you. There is much less risk in dairy 
land than corn land." 

Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his 
head on one side and his mouth screwed up — apparently absorbed in 
making the tips of his fingers meet so as to represent with perfect 
accuracy the ribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man not to see 
through- the whole business, and to foresee perfectly what would be 
his wife's view of the subject j but he disliked giving unpleasant an- 
swers. Unless it was on a point of farming practice, he would rather 
give up than have a quarrel any day ; and after all it mattered more to 
his wife than to him. So after a ie.w moments' silence he looked up 
at her, and said mildly, *' What dost say?" 

Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold severity 
during his silence, but now she turned away her head with a toss, 
looked icily at the opposite roof of the cow-shed, and spearing her 
knitting together with the loose pin, held it firmly between her clasped 
hands. 

" Say ? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o' 
your corn land afore your lease is up, which it wont be for a year come 
next Michaelmas, but I'll not consent to take more dairy work 
into my hands either for love or money, and there's nayther love 
nor money here, as I can see, on'y other folks' love o' themselves, and 
the money as is to go into other folks's pockets. I know there's them 
as is born t' own the land, and them as is born t' sweat on't," — here 
Mrs. Poyser paused to gasp a little — "and I know it's christened folks's 
duty to submit to their betters as fur as flesh and blood 'uU bear it j 
but I'll not make a martyr o' myself, and wear myself to skin and 
bone, and worret myself as if I was a churn wi' butter a-coming in't, 
for no landlord in England, not if he was King George himself." 

" No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not," said the Squire, still 
confident in his own powers of persuasion 3 "you must not overwork 
yourself J but don't you think your work will rather be lessened than 
increased in this way? There is so much milk required at the Abbey, 
that you will have little increase of cheese and butter-making from the 
addition to your dairy 5 and I believe selling the milk is the most 
profitable way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?" 

"Ay, that's true," said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on 
a question of farming profits, and forgetting that it was not in this case 
a purely abstract question. 

" I daresay," said Mrs. Poyser, bitterly, turning her head halfway 
towards her husband, and looking at the vacant arm-chair — " I daresay 
it's true for men as sit i' th' chimney-corner and make believe as every- 
thing's cut wi' ins an' outs to fit int' everything else. If you could 



George Eliot.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 581 

make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be easy getting 
dinner. How do I know whether the milk '11 be wanted constant ? 
What's to make me sure as the house wont be put o' board wage afore 
we're many months older, and then I may have to lie awake o' nights 
wi' twenty gallons o' milk on my mind — and Dingall 'ull take no more 
butter, let alone paying for it 5 and we must fat pio^s till we're obliged 
to beg the butcher on our knees to buy 'em, and lose half of 'em wi' 
the measles. And there's the fetching and carrying, as 'ud be welly 
half a day's v/ork for a man an' boss — that's to be took out o' the 
profits, I reckon ? But there's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump 
and expect to carry away the water." 

*' That difficulty — about the fetching and carrying — you will not 
have, Mrs. Poyser," said the Squire, who thought that this entrance 
into particulars indicated a distant inchnation to compromise on Mrs. 
Poyser's part — " Bethell will do that regularly with the cart and 
pony." 

*' Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I've never been used t' having gen- 
tlefolks's servants coming about my back places, a-making love to both 
the gells at once, and keeping 'em with their hands on their hips 
listening to all manner o' gossip when they should be down on their 
knees a-scouring. If we're to go to ruin, it shanna be wi' having our 
back kitchen turned into a public." 

"Well, Poyser," said the Squire, shifting his tactics and looking as 
if he thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn from the proceed- 
ings and left the room, " you can turn the Hollows into feeding-land. 
I can easily make another arrangement about supplying my house. 
And I shall not forget your readiness to accommodate your landlord as 
well as a neighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease re- 
newed for three years when the present one expires, otherwise I dare- 
say Thurle, who is a man of some capital, would be glad to take both 
the farms, as they could be worked so well together. But I don't want 
to part with an old tenant like you." 

To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been 
enough to complete Mrs. Poyser's exasperation, even without the final 
threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the possibility of their leaving 
the old place where he had been bred and born — for he believed the 
old Squire had small spite enough for anything — was beginning a mild 
remonstrance explanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having 
to buy and sell more stock, with — 

"Well, sir, I think as it's rether hard" .... when Mrs. Poyser 
burst in with the desperate determination to have her say out this once, 
though it were to rain notices to quit, and the only shelter were the 
workhouse. 



582 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [George Eliot. 

"Then, sir, if I may speak — as, for all I'm a woman, and there's 
folks as thinks a woman's a fool enough to stan' by an' look on while 
the men sign her soul away, I've a right to speak, for I make one 
quarter o' the rent, and save the other quarter — I say, if Mr. Thurle's 
so ready to take farms under yon, it's a pity but what he should take 
this, and see if he likes to live in a house wi' all the plagues o' Egypt 
in't — wi' the cellar full o' water, and frogs and toads hoppin' up the 
steps by dozens — and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing 
every bit o' cheese, and runnin' over our heads as we lie i' bed till we 
expect 'em to eat us up alive — as it's a mercy they hanna eat the 
children long ago. I should like to see if there's another tenant besides 
Poyser as 'ud put up wi' never having a bit o' repairs done till a place 
tumbles down — and not then, on'y wi' begging and praying, and 
having to pay half — and being strung up wi' the rent as it's much if 
he gets enough out o' the land to pay, for all he's put his own money 
into the ground beforehand. See if you'll get a stranger to lead such 
a life here as that ; a maggot must be born i' the rotten cheese to like 
it, I reckon. You may run away from my words, sir," continued 
Mrs. Poyser, following the old Squire beyond the door — for after the 
first moments of stunned surprise he had got up, and, waving his 
hands towards her with a smile, had walked out towards his pony. 
But it was impossible for him to get away immediately, for John was 
walking the pony up and down the yard, and was some distance from 
the causeway when his master beckoned. 

" YoQ may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin' 
underhand ways o' doing us a mischief, for you've got Old Harry to 
your friend, though nobody else is, but I tell you for once as we're not 
dumb creatures to be abused and made money on by them as ha' got the 
lash i' their hands, for want o' knowing how t' undo the tackle. An' 
if I'm th' only one as speaks my mind, there's plenty o' the same way 
o' thinking i' this parish and the next to 't, for your name's no better 
than a brimstone match in everybody's nose — if it isna two-three old 
folks as yoLi think o' saving your soul by giving 'em a bit o' flannel 
and a drop o' porridge. An' you may be right i' thinking it'll take but 
little to save your soul, for it'll be the smallest savin' y' iver made, wi' 
all your scrapin'." 

There are occasions on which two servant girls and a waggoner may 
be a formidable audience, and as tlie Squire rode away on his black 
pony, even the gift of short-sightedness did not prevent him from being 
aware that Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from 
him. Perhaps he suspected that sour old John was grinning behind 
him — which was also the fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black- 
and-tan terrier, Alick's sheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe 



Channing.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 583 

distance from the pony's heels^ carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser's 
solo in an impressive quartett. 

Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move otf than 
she turned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which drove 
them into the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting began to knit 
again with her usual rapidity, as she re-entered the house. 

*'' Thee'st done it now," said ]Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and un- 
easy, but not without some triumphant amusement at his wife's out- 
break. 

"Yis, I know I've done it," said Mrs. Poyser 3 ''but I've had my 
say out, and I shall be th' easier for't all my life. There's no pleasure 
i' living if you're to be corked up for iver, and only dribble your mind 
out by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I shan't repent saying what I think 
if I live to be as old as the old Squire, and there's little likelihoods — 
for it seems as if them as aren't wanted here are th' only folks as aren't 
wanted i' th' other world." 

" But thee wotna like moving from th' old place this Michaelmas 
twelvemonth," said Mr. Poyser, " and going into a strange parish, 
where thee know'st nobody. It'U be hard upon us both, and upo' 
father too.'" 

'"Eh, it's no use worretingj there's plenty o' things may happen 
between this and iMichaelmas twelvemonth. The Captain may be 
master afore then, for what we know," said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to 
take an unusually hopeful view of an embarrassment which had been 
brought about by her own merit, and not by other people's fault. 

''I'm none for worre ting," said Mr. Poyser, rising from his three- 
cornered chair and walking slowly towards the door 3 " but I should 
be loth to leave th' old place, and the parish where I was bred and 
born, and father afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I 
doubt, and niver thrive again." — Adam Bccle. 



243.— POETRY. 

[Dr. Channing, 1780 — 1842. 

[The Rev. William Ellery Chaxnixg, D.D., was born at Newport, Rhode Island, 
U.S., in 1780. His grandfather was one of those who signed the Declaration of 
Independence. He was educated at Harvard College, and intended for the medical 
profession, but he abandoned the idea to prepare himself for the Unitarian ministr\-. 
His great eloquence soon rendered him one of the most conspicuous men in America; 
even those who were most opposed to his doctrine admitted the force of his genius 
and the finished elegance of his orator\\ To his great honour, during a long period 
when to denounce slavery in America was to court unpopularity, Channing was 
persistent in his opposition to the pernicious system. He died Oct. 2, 1842.] 

Poetry 1 we believe that poetry, far from injuring society, is one of 



584 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Channing. 

the great instruments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts the 
mind above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing cares, and 
awakens the consciousness of its affinity with what is pure and noble. 
In its legitimate and highest efforts it has the same tendency and aim 
with Christianity ; that is, to spirituaHze our nature. True, poetry 
has been made the instrument of vice, the pander of bad passions ; but 
when genius thus stoops, it dims its fires, and parts with much of its 
power 3 and even when poetry is enslaved to licentiousness or 
misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of 
pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of innocent happiness, 
sympathies with suffering virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation at the 
hollowness of the world, passages true to our moral nature, often 
escape in an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for a gifted 
spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is good. Poetry has a natural 
alliance with our best affections. It delights in the beauty and sub- 
limity of the outward creation and of the soul. It indeed portrays, 
with terrible energy, the excesses of the passions 5 but they are passions 
which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which com- 
mand awe, and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its great 
tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind above and beyond the 
beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; to lift it into a purer 
element • and to breathe into it more profound and generous emotion. 
It reveals to us the loveliness of nature ; brings back the freshness of 
early feelings revives the relish of simple pleasures j keeps unquenched 
the enfhusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being ; refines 
youthful love 5 strengthens our interest in human nature by vivid 
delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; spreads our sympa- 
thies over all classes of society j knits us by new ties v^ith universal 
being j and through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith 
to lay hold on the future life. We are aware that it is objected to 
poetry, that it gives wrong views and excites false expectations of life, 
peoples the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagina- 
tion on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom, against which 
poetry wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes physical comfort 
and gratification the supreme good, and wealth the chief interest of 
life, we do not deny j nor do we deem it the least service which 
poetry renders to mankind, that it redeems them from the thraldom 
of this earth-born prudence. But, passing over this topic, we would 
observe, that the complaint against poetry, as abounding in illusion 
and deception, is in the main groundless. In many poems there is 
more of truth than in many histories and philosophic theories. The 
fictions of genius are often the vehicles of the sublimest verities, and 
its flashes often open new regions of thought, and throw new light 



Browning.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 585 

on the mysteries of our being. In poetry when the letter is falsehood, 
the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And if truth thus dwells in 
the boldest fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his 
delineations of life 5 for the present life, which is the tirst stage of the 
immortal mind, abounds in the materials of poetry, and it is the high 
office of the bard to detect this divine element among the grosser 
labours and pleasures of our earthly being. The present life is not 
only prosaic, precise^, tame, and finite. To the gifted eye, it abounds 
in the poetic. The affections which spread beyond ourselves and 
stretch far into futurity; the workings of mighty passions, which 
seem to arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the inno- 
cent and irrepressible joy of infancy ; the bloom, and buoyancy, and 
dnzzling hopes of youth ; the throbbings of the heart, when it first 
wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness too vast for earth ; woman, 
with her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and 
depth of affection, and blushes of purity, and the tones and looks 
which only a mother's heart can inspire ; — these are all poetical. It is 
not true that the poet paints a life which does not exist. He only 
extracts and concentrates, as it were, life's ethereal essence, arrests and 
condenses its volatile fragrance, brings together its scattered beauties, 
and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys. And in this he 
does well ; for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped by 
cares for subsistence and physical gratifications, but admits, in measures 
which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy 
of a higher being. This power of poetry to refine our views of life 
and happiness, is more and more needed as society advances. It is 
needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial man- 
ners, that make civilization so tame and uninteresting. It is needed 
to counteract the tendency of physical science, which being now 
sought, not, as formerly, for intellectual gratification, but for multiply- 
ing bodily comforts, requires a new development of imagination, taste, 
and poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, material. 
Epicurean life. — Essays on National Literature. 



244.— THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 

[Elizabeth Barrett Browning, died 1861, 

[Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote and published the greater portion of her 
poetry while she was yet Elizabeth Barrett; she married Mr. Browning, the poet, 
in 1846, and died in Italy 1861. Her principal works are "Poems," 2 vols., 
1844; "The Drama of Exile;" "The Vision of Poets;" "Lady Geraldine's 
Courtship;" *' Casa Guidi Windows," written in Florence, 1848; "Aurora 



586 THE EFERY-BAY BOOK [Browning. 

Leigh," 1856, a novel in blank verse; besides numerous contributions to the 
periodicals.] 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers. 

Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, — ■ 

And that cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows. 

The young birds are chirping in the nest. 
The young fawns are playing with the shadows. 

The young flowers are blowing towards the west — 
But the young, young children, O my brothers. 

They are weeping bitterly ! — 
They are weeping in the playtime of the others. 
In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in the sorrow, 

■ Why their tears are falling so ? — 
The old man may weep for his to-morrow 

Which is lost in Long Ago — 
The old tree is leafless in the forest — 

The old year is ending in the frost — 
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest — 

The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
But the young, young children, O my brothers. 

Do you ask them w^hy they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers. 
In our happy Fatherland ? 

They look up with their pale and sunken faces. 

And their looks are sad to see. 
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 

Down the cheeks of infancy — 
"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary 3" 

" Our young feet," they say, " are very weak ! 
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children. 

For the outside earth is cold. 
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering. 

And the graves are for the old. 

" True," say the children, " it may happen 

That we die before our time. 
Little Alice died last year — the grave is shapen 

Like a snowball, in the rime. 



Browning.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 

AVe :::ke:. ::::: :'::e p:r prepared to take her — 

AV:.f ::- r:::n fcr rr^x work in the close clay: 
From the sleep wherein she Heth none will wake her. 

Crying "' Get ap, little Alice I it is day." 
If you listen br that grave, in sun and shower, 

With your ear down, httle Ahce never cries ! — 
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her 

For the smQe has time for growing ia her eyes ! 
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in 

The shroud, bv the kirk-chime ! 

It is good when it happens," say the children, 

"That we die before our time." 

Ala?, alas, the children I they are seeking 

Death in life, as best to have ! 
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, 

Wich a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city — 

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do — 
Pluck your handfuls of the caeadow-cowslips pretty — 
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! 
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows 

Like our weeds anear the mine ? 
Leave us qniet in the dark of the coal-shadows. 

From your pleasures fair and fine ! 

•'•' For oh," say the children, "we are weary. 

And we cannot run or leap — 
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 

To drop down in them and sleep. 
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping — 

We tall upon our faces, trying to go 3 
And, underneath our hea\"y eyelids drooping, 

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. 
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring 

Through the coal- dark, underground — 
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 

In the factories, round and round. 

" For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, — 
Their wind comes in our faces, — 

Till our hearts turn, — our head, with pulses burning. 
And the walls turn in their places — 



588 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Browning. 

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling — 

Turns the long light that drops adown the wall — 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling — 
All are turning, all the day, and we with all. — 
And all day, the iron wheels are droning; 

And sometimes we could pray, 
* O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning) 
' Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " 

Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing 

For a moment, mouth to mouth — 
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing 

Of their tender human youth ! 
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals — 
Let them prove their living souls against the notion 
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! — 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward. 

Grinding hfe down from its mark ; 
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward. 

Spin on bhndly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers. 

To look up to Him and pray — 
So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others. 

Will bless them another day. 
They answer, " Who is God that He should hear us. 

While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us 

Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word ; 
And we hear not (for 'the wheels in their resounding) 

Strangers speaking at the door : 
Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, 

Hears our weeping any more ? 

" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember. 

And at midnight's hour of harm, 
' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber. 

We say softly for a charm.* 
We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' 

And we think that, in some pause of angel's song, 
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather. 
And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 



A fact rendered pathetically historical by Mr. Home's report of his commission. 



Browning.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 589 

" Our Father !' If He heard us. He would surely 

(For they call Him good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 

' Come and rest with me, my child.' 

''But, no !" say the children, weeping faster, 

"■ He is speechless as a stone ; 
And they tell us, of His image is the master 

Who commands us to work on. 
Go to !" say the children, — "up in Heaven, 

Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. 
Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving — 

We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.'* 
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, 

O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
For God's possible is taught by His world's loving — 

And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you ! 

They are weary ere they run -, 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory 

Which is brighter than the sun : 
They know the grief of man, without his wisdom j 
They sink in man's despair, without his calm- 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, — 

Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, — 
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingiy 

The blessings of its memory cannot keep, — 
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly : 

Let them weep ! let them weep ! 

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces. 

And their look is dread to see. 
For they mind you of their angels in their places. 

With eyes turned on Deity ; — 
" How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation. 

Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation. 

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? 
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper. 

And its purple shows your path ! 
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence 
Than the strong man in his wrath !" 

— Poems. Collected Edition. 



590 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Sumner. 



245.— THE CHRISTIAN'S DEPENDENCE UPON HIS REDEEMER. 

[J. B. Sumner, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1780 — 1862. 

[John Bird Sumner was the eldest son of the Rev. Robert Sumner, vicar of 
Kenilworth. He was born 1780, and educated at Eton and King's College, 
Cambridge, where he was Browne's Medallist (Latin) in 1800 ; Hulse's Prizeman in 
1802; and where he graduated B. A. 1803, M.A. 1807, D.D. 1828. He was suc- 
cessively assistant master in and Fellow of Eton College, and then rector of Maple- 
durham, Oxon; Canon of Durham, 1820; Bishop of Chester, 1828; and trans- 
lated to the see of Canterbury in 1848. He died in 1862. His works are " Evi- 
dences of Christianity," "Expository Lectures on the New Testament," "Treatise 
on the Records of the Creation," &c. &c.] 

It is scarcely possible to contemplate the Christian character as described 
in the Gospel, and held up to our imitation, without acknowledging 
an excellence truly divine. This may justly be attributed to that 
religion, which, if it were universally obeyed, would extinguish all the 
vices which disturb human society and disgrace human nature, would 
subdue pride, violence, selfishness, and sensuality, and introduce in 
their stead humility, charity, temperance, mutual forbearance 5 would 
repress all that eager desire after temporal advantages which excites 
evil passions through the collision of interests 5 and would unite all 
men in one pursuit, — the only pursuit in which all could unite, and 
yet assist instead of counteracting each other — that of studying to do 
the will of God for the sake of everlasting happiness. 

Were men to presume so far as to invent a test by which the divine 
origin of a religion should be tried, I can imagine none more unex- 
ceptionable than its tendency to overcome what is acknowledged to be 
evil in human nature, and to raise in an immeasurable degree the 
standard of happiness. T can imagine no eulogy more complete than 
this : that if all men lived up to the spirit of the Gospel, few sources 
of misery would remain in the world, and even that remainder would 
receive the utmost alleviation. 

The only objection which has ever been urged against the true 
Christian character, derives whatever force it has from the disobedience 
of mankind. It has been said, that the meekness, the patience under 
injuries, which it prescribes, is incompatible with our condition on 
earth, and would expose the man who should strictly comply with its 
demands to indignities and wrongs without remedy. But if this were 
true, which it is not to any material extent, as experience proves, even 
under the present circumstances of Christianity, it would afford no 
argument against a religion which requires abstinence from injuries no 
less positively than patience under them. Would it improve the con- 
dition of mankind, if resistance were permitted where patience is now 
enjoined ? Or would it be consistent with the Divine Author of the 



Sumner.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 591 

religion to annul one of his laws because another was broken ? Let 
a human legislator sometimes condescend, if necessary, to the re- 
fractory subjects with which he has to deal. But it is not, surely, for 
God to yield to the passions which rebel against his will, but to ordain 
where their proud waves shall be stayed. In no other way can the 
standard of human nature be raised and improved. 

An objection more plausibly reasonable might perhaps be alleged 
against the Christian character, grounded on the impossibility of reach- 
ing and sustaining it, not only from the opposition of the surrounding 
world, but from the opposition of the natural heart 3 which we con- 
fess, nay avow, rises more or less against all the qualities which form 
the consistent Christian. The answer to this objection is conveyed in 
these words — ''Ahide in me, and 1 in you. As the branch cannot bear 
fruit of itself, unless it abide in the vine ; no more can ye, except ye 
abide in me." The Christian has on his side one who is greater than 
his natural heart. He *' can do all things through Christ that 
strengtheneth him." As there is an inseparable connection between 
the faith and practice of a Christian, so is there likewise a mystical 
union between the Christian and his Redeemer, the *^ author and 
finisher of his faith," wliich enables him both to "will and to do of 
his good pleasure." This is described by a strong, but clear and most 
intelligible metaphor, when it is compared to the union between a 
tree and its branches. It is not pretended that our natural unaided 
strength would enable us to comply with the demands of the Gospel. 
Our Lord expressly declares to his disciples, " Without me ye can do 
nothing." But he promises such assistance of his Spirit from above 
as shall make them both willing and able in " the day of his power." 
He compares them to the branch, which, itself separated at a distance 
from the root and the soil which nourishes the root, is made fruittul 
by the juices which the stem supplies, but can bear no fruit from the 
time that it is severed from the parent tree. " Abide in me, and I in 
you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abide in the 
vine 3 no more can ye, except ye abide in me." 

But as the expression which exhorts us to "abide in Christ" is con- 
fessedly figurative, it becomes necessary to consider in what way we 
may be said to comply with the condition on which our power of 
obedience depends. What is it " to abide in Christ?" It is to live 
in habitual faith in his redemption, and in habitual reliance upon his 
Spirit. 

And first, as to habitual faith. Faith is a word so familiar to our 
ears and our lips, that we maybe easily misled into a groundless belief 
that we understand, nay, adopt it, in its full and scriptural acceptation. 
But trace it back to its original meaning, and by that signification try 



59^ THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Sumner. 

your feelings with respect to Christ. That signification is, such a 
belief or persuasion as leads to trust, reliance, confidence. And if we 
consider the offer or call of Christ, we shall perceive that the trust or 
confidence which he requires may be justly termed " abiding in him." 
He came into the world to deliver mankind from the darkness of 
ignorance and sin, i.e., from spiritual blindness and alienation from 
God, a state inconsistent with their salvation. He came to redeem 
them from punishment ; to renew their hearts by his Holy Spirit ; to 
assign them ruies for such a life as God approves. And in the fulfil- 
ment of this purpose, his language is. Ye who live in the world, the 
posterity of Adam, are '^enemies to God," (who is a God of holiness,) 
"'by wicked works.*' This enmity, this wickedness, he does not 
punish now J but after death there is judgment, when he will inflict 
'^ indignation and wrath, tribulation and anguish, upon every soul of 
man that doeth evil." But trust in me, and I will, for you, appease 
that wrath, and disarm that indignation ; cleave to me, and follow the 
commandments which I set before you ; then will I lead you safely 
through the "^ valley of the shadow of death," by which you must 
pass to an eternal w^crld, and will present you pure and faultless before 
the throne of your Almighty Judge. 

Now an offer of this nature precludes the idea of a passive or 
hesitating reception. It is a personal offer, which must be personally 
accepted or personally rejected. It requires, first, that we see our 
necessity, and are therefore ready to apply for help ; that we feel our 
desert of punishment, and therefore desire a ransom. But it requires 
more also ; for one might feel his necessity, and wish for relief, and 
yet doubt the power of him who offered it : it requires therefore a 
firm persuasion that he who makes the offer is able to make the offer 
good ; and, in the special case of Christ, it requires us to believe that 
he can and will save us j has ransomed us j is able to bestow on us 
his Holy Spirit, and to prepare us for an eternal kingdom, into which 
he will hereafter receive us if we follow him obediently here. 

Such is the corresponding movement on our parts by which his 
gracious offer must be met 3 such is the willing hand which we must 
stretch out to receive the proffered boon, or it is proposed to us in 
vain. " Faith is not merely a speculation, but a practical acknow- 
ledgment of Jesus as the Christ ; an effort and motion of the mind 
towards God ; when the sinner, convinced of sin, accepts with thank- 
fulness the proffered terms of pardon, and in humble confidence 
applying individually to him.self the benefit of the general atonement, 
in the elevated language of a venerable father of the church, 'drinks 
deep of the stream which flows from the Redeemer's side.' The 
effect is, that in a little time he is filled with that 'perfect love of 



Swift.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 593 

God which casteth out fear,' — he cleaves to God with the entire affec- 
tion of the soul." And the question, whether we are abiding in 
Christ, comes to this 3 have we that confidence, that trust, that 
dependence upon him, which induces us to accept his offer ; and are 
we ready to commit ourselves — I should rather say, have we com- 
mitted ourselves — into his hands, both for this world and the next, 
instead of taking our chance for what may come, or instead of trust- 
ing to our own power, our own goodness, our own views of religion ? 
Then we can say with the Apostle, '' 1 know in whom I have 
believed ; and that he is able to keep that which I have committed to 
him against that day." This acceptance of his offer is faith 3 and to 
have so accepted it as to be habitually living by it, and depending on 
it, is to '''abide in Christ :" then he is to the Christian what the stem 
is to the branch ; the sole support on which it leans. — Sunday Lihrary, 
vol. iv. 



246.— THOUGHTS AND APHORISMS. 

[Dean Swift, 1667 — 1745. 
[Jonathan Swift was born in Dublin, 1667. His father was steward of the King's 
Inns, Dublin, and died a few months before the birth of his celebrated son. Swift was 
sent to a school in Kilkenny at six years old, and nine years afterwards to the Univer- 
sity of Dublin; the expenses of his education were defrayed by his uncle. On the 
death of this relative, in 1688, he was engaged by Sir William Temple (who had 
married a relation of his mother) as private secretary. He resolved after a time on 
entering the Church, took orders, and obtained the prebend of Kilroot, in the diocese 
of Connor. In 172+ he wrote the famous "Drapier's Letters." A patent had been 
iniquitously procured by a man of the name of Wood, to coin 180,000/. in copper for 
the use of Ireland, by which he would have made a fortune, and impoverished the 
nation. Dean Swift, in the character of a draper, wrote a series of letters to the 
people, urging them not to receive this base money. They were so successful 
that the patent was withdrawn. Hencefor^vard the Irish looked on him as their best 
friend and champion. Swift was a disappointed and unhappy man, and died in a state of 
mental aberration, 1745. He left ii,oooZ. to erect a hospital for idiots and lunatics. 
His principal works are, a satirical romance called " Gulliver's Travels;" the "Tale 
of a Tub," in which he ridicules Popery and Puritanism; and "Political Tracts 
against the Whigs," with numerous pieces of humorous poetry. He was one of the 
wits of Queen Anne's reign; and we believe we shall do him most justice in so brief 
an extract by giving a selection of his " Thoughts and Aphorisms.'*] 

An old miser kept a tame jackdaw, that used to steal pieces of money 
and hide them in a hole, which the cat observing, asked ''Why he 
would hoard up those round shining things that he could make no use 
of?" "Why," said the jackdaw, "my master has a whole chest full, 
and makes no more use of them than I." 

If the men of wit and genius would resolve never to complain in 
their works of critics and detractors, the next age would not know that 
they ever had any. 

a a 



594 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Swift. 

I never wonder to see men wicked, bat I often wonder to see them 
not ashamed. 

Imaginary evils soon become real ones by indulging our reflections 
on them, as he who in a melancholy fancy sees something like a face 
on the wall or the wainscot can, by two or three touches with a lead 
pencil, make it look visible and agreeing with what he fancied. 

Men of great parts are often unfortunate in the management of 
public business, because they are apt to go out of the common road by 
the quickness of their imagination. This I once said to my Lord 
Bolingbroke, and desired he would observe that the clerks in his office 
used a sort of ivory knife with a blunt edge to divide a sheet of paper, 
which never failed to cut it even, only requiring a steady hand j 
whereas if they should make use of a sharp penknife, the sharp- 
ness would make it often go out of the crease and disfigure the 
paper. 

" He who does not provide for his own house," St. Paul says, " is 
worse than an infidel ;" and I think he who provides only for his own 
house, is just equal with an infidel. 

When 1 am reading a book, whether wise or silly, it seems to me to 
be alive, and talking to me. 

When I was young I thought all the world, as well as myself, was 
wholly taken up in discoursing upon the last new play. 

1 never yet knew a wag (as the term is) who was not a dunce. 

A person reading to me a dull poem of his own making, I prevailed 
on him to scratch out six lines together; in turning over the leaf, the 
ink being wet, it marked as many lines on the other side; whereof the 
poet complaining, I bid him be easy, for it would be better if those 
were out too. 

We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to 
make us love one another. 

When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on the 
good side or circumstances of it; when it is obtained, our minis run 
wholly on the bad ones. 

The latter part of a wise man's life is taken up in curing the foUies, 
prejudices, and false opinions he had contracted in the former. 

Would a writer know how to behave himself w^ith relation to pos- 
terity, let him consider in old books what he finds that he is glad to 
know, and what omissions he most laments. 

One argument, to prove that the common relations of ghosts and 
spectres are generall) false, may be drawn from the opinion held that 
spirits are never seen by more than one person at a time; that is to 
say, it seldom happens to above one person in a company to be pos- 
sessed with any high degree of spleen or melancholy. 



Swift.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 595 

It is grown a word of course for writers to say, ** This critical age," 
as divines say, " This sinful age." 

It is pleasant to observe how free the present age is in laying taxes 
on the next : " Future ages shall talk of this : this shall be famous to 
all posterity}" wliereas their time and thoughts will be taken up about 
present things, as ours are now. 

I never heard a tiner piece of satire against lawyers than that of 
astrologers, when they pretend by rules of art to tell when a suit will 
end, and whether to the advantage of the plaintiff or defendant j thus 
making the matter depend entirely upon the influence of the stars, 
without the least regard to the merits of the cause. 

I have known some men possessed of good qualities, which were 
very serviceable to others but useless to themselves} like a sun-dialon 
the front of a house, to inform the neighbours and passengers, but not 
the owner within. 

If a man would register all his opinions upon love, politics, religion, 
learning, &:c., beginning from his youth, and so go on to old age, what 
a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions would appear at last ! 

The stoical scheme of supplying our wants by lopping otf our de- 
sires, is like cutting otf our feet when we want shoes. 

The reason why so few marriages are happy, is because young ladies 
spend their time in making nets, not in making cages. 

The power of fortune is confessed only by the miserable, for the 
happy impute all their success to prudence or merit. 

Ambition often puts men upon doing the meanest oflfices j so climb- 
ing is performed in the same posture with creeping. 

Although men are accused for not knowing their own weakness, yet 
perhaps as few know their own strength. It is in men as in soils, 
where sometimes tliere is a vein of gold which the owner knows 
not of. 

An idle reason lessens the weight of the good ones you gave before. 

Arbitrary power is the natural object of temptation to a prince; as 
wine or women to a young fellow, or a bribe to a judge, or avarice to 
old age, or vanity to a woman. 

The humour of exploding many things under the name of trifles, 
fopperies, and only imaginary goods, is a very false proof either of 
wisdom or magnanimity, and a great check to virtuous actions. For 
instance, with regard to fame j there is in most people a reluctance 
and unwillingness to be forgotten. We observe tven among the vulgar, 
how fond they are to have an inscription over their grave. It requires 
but little philosophy to discover and observe that there is no intrinsic 
value in all this } however, if it be founded in our nature, as an incite- 
ment to virtue, it ought not to be ridiculed. 

a a 2 



596 THE EFFAiY-DAY BOOK [Disraeli 

Complaint is the largest tribute heaven receives, and the sincerebt 
part of our devotion. 

The common fluency of speech in many men, and most women, is 
owing to a scarcity of matter, and a scarcity of words ; for whoever is 
a master of language, and hath a mind full of ideas, will be apt in 
speaking to hesitate upon the choice of both; whereas common 
speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of words to clothe 
them in ; and these are always ready at the mouth ; so people come 
faster out of church when it is almost empty, than when a crowd is at 
the door. — Swift's fVbrks, vol. xii. 



247.— JERUSALEM. 

[The Right Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, 1805. 
[Benjamin Disraeli is the eldest son of Mr. Isaac Disraeli, the well-known writer. 
He was born in London Dec. 21, 1805. He became an author while yet a minor, 
and published his very successful novel, "Vivian Grey," in 1825. He commenced 
his parliamentary life in 183 1 by contesting the borough of Wycombe on Tory 
principles against the Hon. C. Grey, son of the then Premier, and was defeated by a 
small majority. In 1837 ^^ entered Parliament for Maidstone. In 1841 he repre- 
sented Shrewsbury. In 1847 he became member for Buckinghamshire, which seat 
he has retained for twenty-two years. Mr. Disraeli was Chancellor of the Exchequer 
under T-ord Derby's administrations, and became Premier in 1868, when he passed 
the Reform Bill. His brilliant novels, combining fiction and politics, have given 
him a high place in English literature. They are "Vivian Grey," "The Young 
Duke," " Henrietta Temple," " Contarini Fleming," "Venetia," " The Wondrous 
Tale of Alroy," " Coningsby," " Sybil," and " Tancred." He also wrote a 
"Vindication of the English Constitution," a "Biography of Lord G. Ben- 
tinck," &c. &c.] 

The broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its 
beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of 
Absalom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. 
Full falls its splendour, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined 
in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers and frequent 
gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles 
the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous 
than those of Rome : for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvarv, 
while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, 
are as ignorant of the Capitolan and Aventine Mounts as they are of 
the Malvern or the Chiltern Hills. 

The broad steep of Sion crowned with the tower of David 5 nearer 
still. Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abra- 
ham, but built, alas ! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's 
chosen one J close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and 
airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool 3 further on. 



Disraeli.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 597 

entered by the gate of St Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of 
night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long winding ascent to a 
vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief, 
because there the most illustrious of the human, as well as of the 
Hebrew, race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son of 
the most favoured of women, twice sank under that burden of suffer- 
ing and shame which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem 
of triumph and of honour ; passing over groups and masses of houses 
built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, 
we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built his mystic citadel j 
and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem 
on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed the temple. The 
religion of Judaea has in turn subverted the fan.s which were raised 
to his father and to himself in their imperial capital 3 and the God of 
Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped before every 
altar in Rome. 

Jerusalem by moonlight ! 'Tis a fine spectacle, apart from all its 
indissoluble associations of awe and beauty. The mitigating hour 
softens the austerity of a mountain landscape magnificent in outline, 
however harsh and severe in detail 5 and, while it retains all its sub- 
limity, removes much of the savage sternness of the strange and 
unrivalled scene. A fortified city, almost surrounded by ravines, 
and rising in the centre of chains of far-spreading hills, occasionally 
offering, through their rocky glens, the gleams of a distant and richer 
land ! 

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in 
the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-per- 
vading stillness is broken by a breeze, that seems to have travelled over 
the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and 
sighs among the cypress groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, 
as if it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze that has travelled over 
the plain of Sharon from the sea ? 

Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that 
they could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on the land 
where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending 
fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. From this Mount! Who 
can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the 
Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the 
battlements of their mystic city ? There might be counted heroes 
and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the brightest and the 
wisest of other lands ; but the lawgiver of the :ime of the Pharaohs, 
whose laws are still obeyed ; the monarch, whose reign has ceased for 
three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all nations of 



598 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Disraeli. 

the earth ; the teacher, whose doctrines have modelled civilized 
Europe J — the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, 
and the greatest of reformers — what race, extinct or living, can pro- 
duce three such men as these ! 

The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wail- 
ing breeze has become a moaning wind ; a white film spreads over 
the purple sky ; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid ; all becomes as 
dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat. The 
tower of David merges into obscurity j no longer glitter the minarets 
of the mosque of Omar j Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of 
Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem and the heights 
of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing dark- 
ness, while the very line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the 
church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon light. 

And why is the church of the Holy Sepulchre a beacon light ? 
Why, when it is already past the noon of darkness, when every soul 
slumbers in Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep repose 
except the howl of the wild dog crying to the wilder wind — why is 
the cupola of the sanctuary illumined, though the hour has long 
since been numbered, when pilgrims there kneel and monks pray ? 

An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the court of the church ; 
within the church itself, two brethren of the convent of Terra Santa 
keep holy watch and ward ; while, at the tomb beneath, there kneels 
a solitary youth, who prostrated himself at sunset, and who will there 
pass unmoved the whole of the sacred night. 

Yet the pilgrim is not in communion with the Latin Church ; 
leither is he of the Church Armenian, or the Church Greek, 
Maronite, Coptic, or Abyssinian -, these also are Christian churches 
which cannot call him child. 

He comes from a distant and a northern isle to bow before the 
tomb of a descendant of the kings of Israel, because he, in common 
with all the people of that isle, recognises in that sublime Hebrew in- 
carnation the presence of a Divine Redeemer. Then why does he 
come alone? It is not that he has availed himself of the inventions 
of modern science, to repair first to a spot, which all his countrymen 
may equally desire to visit, and thus anticipate their hurrying arrival. 
Before the inventions of modern science, all his countrymen used to 
flock hither. Then why do they not now ? Is the Holy Land no 
longer hallowed ? Is it not the land of sacred and mysterious truths ? 
The land of heavenly messages and earthly miracles ? The land of 
prophets and apostles ? Is it not the land upon whose mountains the 
Creator of the Universe parleyed with man, and the flesh of whose 
anointed race He mystically assumed, when He struck the last blow at 



Disraeli.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 599 

the powers of evil? Is it to be believed, that there are no peculiar and 
eternal qualities in a land thus visited, which distinguish it from all 
others ? That Palestine is like Normandy or Yorkshire, or even Attica 
or Rome. 

There may be some who maintain this ; there have been some, 
and those, too, among the wisest and the wittiest of the northern and 
M estern races, who, touched by a presumptuous jealousy of the long 
predominance of that oriental intellect to which they owed their 
civilization, would have persuaded themselves and the world that the 
traditions of Sinai and Calvary were fables. Half a century ago, 
Europe made a violent and apparently successful effort to disembarrass 
itself of its Asian faith. The most powerful and the most civilized 01 
its kingdoms, about to conquer the rest, shut up its churches, desecratec 
its altars, massacred and persecuted their sacred servants, and announced 
that the Hebrew creeds which Simon Peter brought from Palestine, 
and which his successors revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and a 
fiction. What has been the result ? In every city, town, village, and 
hamlet of that great kingdom, the divine image of the most illustrious 
of Hebrews has been again raised amid the homage of kneeling 
millions ; while, in the heart of its bright and witty capital, the nation 
has erected the most gorgeous of modern temples, and consecrated its 
marble and golden w^alls to the name, and memory, and celestial 
etHcacy of a Hebrew w^oman. 

The country of which the solitary pilgrim, kneeling at this moment 
at the Holy Sepulchre, was a native, had not actively shared in that 
insurrection against the first and second Testament, which distinguished 
tlie end of the eighteenth century. But more than six hundred 
years before, it had sent its king, and the flower of its peers and 
people, t<D rescue Jerusalem from those whom they considered infidels ! 
and now, instead of the third crusade, they expend their superfluous 
energies in the construction of railroads. 

The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusalem, on which such 
vast treasure, such prodigies of valour, and such ardent belief has been 
wasted, has been one of those circumstances which have tended to 
disturb the faith of Europe, although it should have carried con- 
victions of a very difierent character. The Crusaders looked upon 
the Saracens as infidels, whereas the children of the Desert bore a 
much nearer aftinity to the sacred corpse that had, for a brief space, con- 
secrated the holy sepulchre, than any of the invading host of Europe. 
The same blood flowed in their veins, and they recognised the divine 
missions both of Moses and of his greater successor. In an age so 
deficient in physiological learning as the twelfth century, the mysteries 
of race were unknown. Jerusalem, it cannot be doubted, will ever 



6oo THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Southey. 

Temain the appanage either of Israel or of Ishmael , and if, in the 
course of those great vicissitudes, which are no doubt impending for 
the East, there be any attempt to place upon the throne of David a 
prince of the House of Coburg or Deuxponts, the same fate will 
doubtless await him as, with all their brilliant qualities and all the 
sympathy of Europe, was the final doom of the Godfreys, the 
Baldwins, and the Lusignans. — Tancred: or, the New Crusade^ Book 3, 
chap. i. 

248.— DEATH OF NELSON. 

[Robert Southey, 1774 — 1843. 

[Robert Southey, LL.D., "poet, scholar, antiquary, critic, and historian," was one of 
the most voluminous writers of his own, or perhaps any age. He was born at Bristol 
1774, and was the son of a linendraper. He achieved for himself the highest place 
among nature's noblemen by the right of his nobility of mind; and he left at his 
death 12,000/., to be divided among his children, and one of the most valuable private 
libraries in the kingdom. His principal poems are, "Thalaba the Destroyer," and 
the " Curse of Kehama;" they display a wonderful power of imagination, invention, 
and word-painting. In biography, his " Life of Nelson" has been held up, with 
justice, as a model for all writers of biography. His "Doctor," a sort of common- 
place book, is a work full of suggestions useful to the student, but full of affectations 
which would scarcely be agreeable to the general reader. It was in his early youth 
that he wrote "The Well of St. Keyne," "Mary the Maid of the Inn," and those 
ballads which have been the admiration of the rising generation for the last fifty years. 
It may be said of him that he literally worked his brain dry, fur, at last, his intellect 
became clouded, and his power of comprehension faded out of him. He died at 
Greta, 1843.] 

An incessant fire was kept up from the Victory, from both sides ; her 
larboard guns playing upon the Bucentaure and the huge Santissima 
Trinidad. 

It had been part of Nelson's prayer, that the British fleet might be 
distinguished by humanity in the victory which he expected. Setting 
an example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing upon the 
Redoubtable, supposing that she had struck because her great guns 
were silent j for as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly 
ascertaining the fact. From this ship, which he had thus twice spared, 
he received his death. A ball fired from her mizen-top, which, in the 
then situation of the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from 
that part of the deck where he was standing, struck the epaulette on 
his left shoulder, about a quarter after one, just in the heat of action. 
He fell upon his face, on the spot which was covered with his poor 
secretary's blood. Hardy, who was a few steps from him, turning 
round, saw three men raising him up. '^They have done for me at 
last. Hardy!" said he. — "I hope not!" cried Hardy. — *'Yes!" he 
replied 3 " my back-bone is shot through." Yet even now, not for a 



Southey.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 6oi 

moment losing his presence of mind, he observed, as they were carry- 
ing him down the ladder, that the tiller-ropes, which had been shot 
away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new ones should be 
rove immediately : — then, that he might not be seen by the crew, he 
took out his handkerchief, and covered his face and his stars. — Had he 
but concealed these badges of honour from the enemy, England per- 
haps would not have had cause to receive with sorrow the news of the 
battle of Trafalgar. The cockpit was crowded with wounded and 
dying men : over whose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, 
and laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen's berth. It was soon per- 
ceived upon examination, that the wound was mortal. This, how- 
ever, was concealed from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and 
the medical attendants. He himself being certain, from the sensation 
in his back, and the gush of blood he felt momently within his breast, 
that no human care could avail him, insisted that the surgeon should 
leave him, and attend to those to whom he might be useful: "For," 
said he, ''you can do nothing for me." — All that could be done was 
to fan him with paper, and frequently to give him lemonade, to 
alleviate his intense thirst. He was in great pain, and expressed much 
anxiety for the event of the action, which now began to declare itself. 
As often as a ship struck the crew of the Victory hurraed ; and at 
every hurrah, a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eye and 
marked the countenance of the dying hero. But he became im- 
patient to see Captain Hardy j and as that officer, though often sent 
for, could not leave the deck. Nelson feared that some fatal cause pre- 
vented him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one bring Hardy to me? 
He must be killed ! He is surely dead !" — An hour and ten minutes 
elapsed from the time when Nelson received his wound before Hardy 
could come to him. They shook hands in silence : Hardy in vain 
struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful and yet 
sublimest moment. " Well, Hardy," said Nelson, " how goes the 
day with us ?" '' Very well/' replied Hardy ; " ten ships have struck, 
but five of the van have tacked, and show an intention to bear down 
upon the Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships 
round, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing." "I hope," 
said Nelson, "none of our ships have struck?" Hardy answered, 
"There is no fear of that." Then, and not till then, Nelson spoke of 
himself. " lam a dead man. Hardy," said he : "I am going fast: — 
it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer to me. Let my dear 
Lady Hamilton have my hair and all other things belonging to me." 
Hardy observed, that he hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some 
prospect of life. " Oh no !" he replied j " it is impossible: my back 
is shot through) Beatty will tell you so." Captain Hardy then once 



6o2 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Southey. 

more shook hands with him ; and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened 
upon deck. 

By this time all feehng below the breast was gone ; and Nelson, 
having made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him, " You know I am 
gone. I know it. I feel something rising in my breast," — putting 
his hand on his left side, — "which tells me so." And upon Beatty's 
inquiring whether his pain was very great ? he replied, so great that 
he wished he was dead. " Yet," said he, in a lower voice, " one would 
like to live a little longer too !" And after a few minutes, in the same 
under tone, he added, " What would become of poor Lady Hamilton 
it she knew my situation ?" — Next to his country she occupied his 
thoughts. Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he left the cock- 
pit, returned 3 and, again taking the hand of his dying friend and 
commander, congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. 
How many of the enemy were taken he did not know, as it was im- 
possible to perceive them distinctly ; but fourteen or fifteen at least. 
" That's well," cried Nelson ; *' but I bargained for twenty." And 
then, in a stronger voice, he said, " Anchor, Hardy — anchor." Hardy, 
upon this, hinted that Admiral Collingwood would take upon himself 
the direction of affairs. *' Not while I live. Hardy," said the dying 
Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to raise himself from the bed : 
*' do you anchor." His previous order for preparing to anchor had 
shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity of this. Presently, calling 
Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice, " Don't throw me over- 
board :" and he desired that he might be buried by his parents, unless 
it should please the king to order otherwise. Then reverting to private 
feelings ; " Take care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy ; take care 
of poor Lady Hamilton. — Kiss me. Hardy," said he. Hardy knelt 
down and kissed his cheek ; and Nelson said, " Now I am satisfied. 
Thank God, I have done my duty." Hardy stood over him in silence 
for a moment or two, then knelt again, and kissed his forehead. " Who 
is that ?" said Nelson 5 and being informed, he replied, '* God bless 
you. Hardy." And Hardy then left him — forever. 

Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right side, and said, " I 
wish I had not left the deck 3 fori shall soon be gone." Death was 
indeed rapidly approaching. He said to the chaplain, " Doctor, I have 
not been a great sinner 3" and after a short pause, " Remember that I 
leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to my 
country." His articulation now became difficulty but he was distinctly 
heard to say, " Thank God, I have done my duty !" These words he 
repeatedly pronounced ; and they were the last words which he uttered. 
He expired at thirty minutes after four, — three hours and a quarter 
after he had received his wound. — Life of Nelson. 



Maupertuis.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 603 



249.— THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. 

[Maupertuis, 1698 — 1759. 

[Peter Lewis Moreau de Maupertuis was born at St. Malo, 1698. He was of 
noble birth, and for three years served in the French army, but he quitted it to 
engage in the labours of science. He was admitted member of the French Academy 
1723, and some years afterwards, when visiting London, was made Fellow of the 
Royal Society. In 1 736 he was at the head of the French Academicians sent by the 
King of France to the north to ascertain the figure of the Earth. He was after- 
wards invited by the Prince of Prussia to become the President of the learned society 
there. He accompanied his royal patron in his campaign against the Austriaiis, and 
was taken prisoner at the battle of Molwitz ; but the emperor generously gave him 
his freedom, and he returned to Berlin. Soon afterwards he was engaged in some 
literary quarrels with Koenig, professor of Philosophy at Franeker, and with Voltaire. 
The disposition of Maupertuis was not calculated to win affection, but Voltaire 
was so severely satirical on him whom he had long called his friend and mathema- 
tical instructor, that the King of Prussia interfered in his behalf. Maupertuis died 
at Basil while on a visit to his friends the Bernouille's, in July 1759. His v/orks are 
very valuable, and were collected in 1756. They are — "Figure of the Earth deter- 
mined;" " Measurement of a degree of the Meridian;" " Discourse on the Figure of 
the Stars;" " Reflections on the Origin of Languages ;" &c. &c.] 

The town of Tornea, at our arrival on the 30th of December, had 
really a most frightful aspect. Its little houses were buried to the tops 
in snow, which had there been clear daylight must have effectually 
shut it out ; but the snow continually falling, or ready to fall, for the 
most part hid the sun during the few moments he might have appeared 
at mid-day. 

In the month of January the cold increased till Reaumur's mercurial 
thermometer, which at Paris, in the great frost of 1709, it was thought 
strange to see fall 14° below the freezing point, fell to 37°. The spirit 
of wine in the others was frozen. If we opened the door of a warm 
room, the external air instantly converted all the vapour in it into snow, 
whirling it round in a white vortex. If we went out, we felt as if the 
air were tearing our chests j and indoors the cracking of the wood, of 
which the houses are built, as it split by the violence of the frost, con- 
tinually alarmed us with an increase of cold. 

The solitude of the streets was as great as if the people had been all 
dead. In this country one often sees people who have lost an arm or 
leg by the frost. The cold, which is always very great, sometimes 
increases so violently and suddenly, as to be infallibly fatal to those who 
are so unhappy as to be exposed to it. 

The winds seem to blow from all quarters at once, and drive about 
the snow with such fury that in a moment all the roads are rendered 
invisible. Dreadful is the situation of a person surprised in the open 
country in such a storm ; his knowledge of the roads, and even 
the marks affbrded by the trees, cannot avail him : he is blinded 



6o4 TEE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Maupertuis. 

by the snow, and if he attempts to find his way home, is generally 
lost. 

But though in this climate the earth is horrible, the heavens present 
the most magnificent aspects. The short days are no sooner closed, 
than fires of a thousand colours and figures light up the sky, as if de- 
signed to compensate for the absence of the sun. These fires have 
not here, as in more southerly latitudes, any constant situation. Though 
a luminous arch is often seen fixed in the north, the lights seem more 
frequently to possess the whole extent of the hemisphere. Sometimes 
they begin in the form of a great scarf of bright light, with its ends 
upon the horizon, which glides swiftly up the sky with a motion 
resembling that of a fishing-net, preserving as it moves a direction 
nearly perpendicular to the meridian j and more commonly after these 
preludes, all the lights unite at the zenith and form the top of a kind 
of crown. Arcs like those seen in France towards the north, are here 
frequently situated towards the south, and are often seen both in the 
north and south at the same time. Their summits approach each 
other, and the distance of their extremities widens towards the horizon. 
I have seen opposite arcs whose summits almost join at the zenith, and 
both the one and the other have several concentric arcs beyond it. 
Their tops are all placed in the direction of the meridian, though with 
a little declination to the west, which I did not find to be constant, 
and Mdiich is sometimes insensible. 

It would be endless to mention all the different figures these 
meteors assume, and the various motions with which they are agitated. 
Their movement is most commonly like that of a pair of colours 
waved in the air, and the different tints of their light give them the 
appearance of so many vast streamers of changeable taifeta. Some- 
times they line a part of the sky with scarlet. 

On the 1 8th of December I saw a phenomenon of this kind that, in 
the midst of the wonders to which I was every day accustomed, ex - 
cited my admiration. To the south a great space of the sky appeared 
tinged with so lively a red, that the whole constellation of Orion 
looked as if it had been steeped in blood. This light, which was at 
first fixed, soon moved, and changing into other colours — violet and 
blue, settled into a dome, the top of which stood a little to the south- 
west of the zenith. The moon shone brightly, but did not in the least 
efface it. 

In this country, where there are lights of so many different colours, 
I never saw more than two that were red, and such are taken for pre- 
sages of some great misfortune. After all, when people gaze at these 
phenomena with an unphilosophic eye, it is not surprising if they 



I ! 



Landor.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 605 

discover in them armies engaged, fiery chariots, and a thousand other 
prodigies. 

During the winter we repeated many of our observations and calcu- 
lations, and found the most evident proofs of the earth's being flatted 
at the poles. Meantime the sun came nearer, or rather, no more 
quitted us. It was now May, and it was curious to see that great 
luminary enlighten for so long a time a whole horizon of ice ; and 
to see summer in the heavens, while winter still kept possession of the 
earth. We were in the morning of that long day of several months ; 
yet the sun with all his power wrought no change either upon the ice 
or snows. 

On the 6th of May it began to rain, and some water appeared on 
the ice of the river. At noon a little snow melted, but in the evening 
winter resumed his rights. At length, on the loth, the earth, which 
had been so long hid, began to appear ^ some high points that were 
exposed to the sun showed themselves, as the tops of the mountains did 
after the Deluge, and all the fowls of the country returned. 

At the beginning of June — winter yielding up the earth and sea — 
we prepared for our departure back to Stockholm, and on the 9th 
some of us set out by land, and others by sea. — Account of a Journey to 
the Polar Circle to determi?ie the Figure of the Earth. 



250.— IMAGINARY CONVERSATION BETWEEN SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
AND LORD BROOKE. 

[Walter Savage Landor, 1775 — 1864. 

[Walter Savage Landor was the son of a gentleman of ancient family and large 
fortune. He was born at Ipsley Court, Warwickshire, in 1775, and was educated at 
Rugby School and Trinity College, Oxford, He travelled on the Continent, and in 
1808 raised at his own expense a body of troops in aid of the Spanish patriots. He 
married in i8ii, and settled for a time at Bath; but finally went to Florence wi:h 
his wife, where he resided for the space of thirty years, and composed his most im- 
portant works. In 1820 he printed his " Idyllia Heroica" at Pisa. Between 1824 
and 1829 he brought out his " Imaginary Conversatiors of Literary Men and States- 
men" in London. In 1831 " Gebir," a poem (afterwards translated by himself into 
Latin), appeared. In 1836 he published "A Satire on Satirists and Admonition to 
Detractors," Next year the " Pentameron and Pentalogue." His dramas, " Andrew 
of Hungary" and "Joanna of Naples" appeared in 1839. I" 1853 he published u 
volume of essays, " Last Fruit off an Old Tree," and in 1858 " Dry Sticks." Tnis 
aged writer died abroad in 1864. He had been the contemporary of Wordsworth, 
Coleridge, Burns, &c., and was a writer of undoubted talent. His genius was best dis- 
played in his " Imaginary Conversations," from which we se'ect the following one.] 

Brooke. I come again unto the woods and unto the wilds of Pens- 
hurst, whither my heart and the friend of my heart have long invited me. 
Sidney. Welcome, welcome ! And now, Greville, seat yourself 



6o6 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Landor. 

under this oak, since, if you had hungered or thirsted from your 
journey, you would have renewed the alacrity of your old servants in 
the hall. 

Brooke. In truth I did so 3 for no otherwise the good household 
would have it. The birds met me first, affrighted by the tossing up 
of caps, and I knew by these harbingers who were coming. When 
my palfrey eyed them askance from their clamorousness, and shrank 
somewhat back, they quarrelled with him almost before they saluted 
me, and asked him many pert questions. What a pleasant spot, Sidney, 
have you chosen here for meditation ! a solitude is the audience-chambet 
of God. Few days, verj'- few in our year like this : there is a fresh 
pleasure in every fresh posture of the limbs, in every turn the eye takes. 

Youth, creduloas of happiness, throw down 
Upon this turf thy wallet, stored and swoln 
With morrow-morns, bird-eggs, and bladders burst. 
That tires thee with its wagging to and fro ; 
Thou, too, wouldst breathe more freely for it. Age, 
Who lackest heart to laugh at life's deceit. 

It sometimes requires a stout push, and sometimes a sudden resistance 
in the wisest men, not to become for a moment the most foolish. 
What have I done ? I have fairly challenged you, so much my 
master. 

Sidney. You have warmed mej I must cool a little, and watch my 
opportunity. So now, Greville, return you to your invitations, and I 
will clear the ground for the company : youth, age, and whatever 
comes between, with all their kindred and dependencies. Verily we 
need few taunts or expostulations, for in the country we have few vices, 
and consequently few repinings. I take especial care that my labourers 
and farmers shall never be idle. In church they are taught to love 
God, after church they are practised to love their neighbour 3 for 
business on work-days keeps them apart and scattered, and on market- 
days they are prone to a rivalry bordering on malice, as competitors 
for custom. Goodness does not more certainly make men happy, 
than happiness makes them good. We must distinguish between 
felicity and prosperity, for prosperity leads often to ambition, and am- 
bition to disappointment j the course is then overj the wheel turns 
round but once, while the reaction of goodness and happiness is 
perpetual. 

Brooke. You reason justly, and you act rightly. Piety, warm, soft 
and passive as the aether round the throne of Grace, is made callous and 
inactive by kneeling too much ; her vitality faints under rigorous and 
wearisome observances. 



Landor.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 607 

Sidney, Desire of lucre, the worst and most general country vice, 
arises here from the necessity of looking to small gains. It is the tartar 
that encrusts economy. 

Brooke. O that anything so monstrous should exist in this profusion 
and prodigality of blessings ! The herbs are crisp and elastic with 
health 5 they are warm under my hand, as if their veins were filled 
with such a fluid as ours. What a hum of satisfaction in God's creatures ! 
How is it, Sidney, the smallest do seem the happiest? 

Sidney. Compensation for their weaknesses and their fears 5 com- 
pensation for the shortness of their existence. Their spirits mount upon 
the sunbeam above the eagle j they have more enjoyment i-n their one 
summer than the elephant in his century. 

Brooke. Are not also the little and lowly in our species the most 
happy ? 

Sidney. I would not willingly try nor over-curiously examine it. We, 
Greville, are happy in these parks and forests j we were happy in my 
close winter-walk of box, and laurestinus, and mezereon. In our 
earlier days, did we not emboss our bosoms with the crocuses, and 
shake them almost unto shedding with our transports ? Ah, my friend, 
there is a greater difference, both in the stages of life and in the seasons 
of the year, than in the conditions of men ; yet the healthy pass through 
the seasons, from the clement to the inclement, not only unreluctantly, 
but rejoicingly, knowing that the worst will soon finish, and the best 
begin anewj and we are all desirous of pushing forward into every stage 
of life, excepting that alone which ought reasonably to allure us most, as 
opening to us the Via Sacra, along which we move in triumph to our 
eternal country. We may in some measure frame our minds for the 
reception of happiness, for more or for less j but we should well con- 
sider to what port we are steering in search of it, and that even in the 
richest we shall find but a circumscribed and very exhaustible quantity. 
There is a sickliness in the firmest of us, which induces us to change 
our side, though reposing ever so softly; yet, wittingly or unwittingly, 
we turn again soon into our old position. God hath granted unto 
both of us hearts easily contented ; hearts fitted for every station, be- 
cause fitted for every duty. What appears the dullest may contribute 
most to our genius ; what is most gloomy may soften the seeds and 
relax the fibres of gaiety. Sometimes we are insensible to its kindlier 
influence, sometimes not. We enjoy the solemnity of the spreading 
oak above us; perhaps we owe to it in part the mood of our minds at 
this instant ; perhaps an inanimate thing supplies me while I am 
speaking with all I possess of animation. Do you iuiagine that any 
contest ot" shepherds can a fiord them the same pleasure that I receive 
from the description of it; or that in their loves, however innocent 



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[Poe. 



and faithful, they are so free from anxiety as I am while I celebrate 
them ? The exertion of intellectual power, of fancy and imagination, 
keeps from us greatly more than their wretchedness, and affords us 
greatly more than their enjoyment. We are motes in the midst of 
generations ; we have our sunbeams to circuit and chmb. Look at 
the summits of all the trees around us, how they move, and the loftiest 
the more so ; nothing is at rest within the compass of our view except 
the grey moss on the park-pales. Let it eat away the dead oak, but 
let it not be compared to the living one. —Imaginary Conversations. 



251.— THE BELLS. 

[Edgar Allan Poe, 181 i — 1849. 

[Save in the career of the unfortunate Richard Savage, the life of this degraded genius 
has no parallel in literary history. He v^^as born at Baltimore, U.S.A., about the 
year 181 1, and left destitute v^hen a mere child by his parents, v^ho w^ere strolling 
players. Adopted and sent to school by a Virginian planter, Mr. Allan, he was from 
the first ungrateful and unmanageable. He was expelled from a military academy 
in which Mr. Allan placed him; he enlisted in the army, then deserted, and picked 
up a precarious living by contributing to American periodicals. That he was a great 
natural genius is beyond a doubt; but he could settle to nothing, he was a Bohemian 
by disposition, and a drunkard from choice. His genius made him many friends, but 
he kept none; and he deceived and disgraced all he came in contact with; he was 
morbidly reckless, and his diseased imagination is reflected in his writings. He seems 
to have written as he li\ed, in a dream of intoxication, in which despondency alter- 
nated with savage hilarity, and in which nothing real had a part. His poem " The 
Raven," is acknowledged in both this and his own country to be the most original 
poem that America has yet produced. He died October 7, 1849, '" ^ hospital at 
Baltimore. His "Tales of Mystery and Imagination" have been reprinted in this 
country, and had a large sale.] 

Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight. 

Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 



Poe.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 609 

Hear the mellow wedding bells. 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells j 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes. 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How H dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 

Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavour. 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air. 

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6io THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Poe. 

Yet the ear it fully knows. 

By the twanging. 

And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 

In the jangling, 

And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells j 

Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells, bells. 
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels. 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are Ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls 5 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 
Rolls 
A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances, and he yells j 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the paean of the bells — • 
Of the bells : 

/ 
/ 



Home.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 6t 

Keeping time, time, time 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the beUs, bells, bells— 
To the tolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 
Bells, bells, beUs— 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

— Collected Poems, 



252.— THE GARDEN OF EDEN. 

[Bishop Horne, 1730 — 1792. 

[The Right Rev. George Horne was born at Otham, Kent, 1730, and received his 
education at Maidstone School, whence he was elected to a scholarship of University- 
College, Oxford. He was afterwards appointed a Fellow of Magdalen College ; took 
holy orders in 1752, and became distinguished as a preacher. In 1768 he was chosen 
president of Magdalen, and appointed chaplain in ordinary to the King. He was the 
author of a very popular " Commentary on the Book of Psalms," and some clever 
controversial works. He was created Bishop of Norwich, and died at Bath 1792.] 

When God, in after times, selected a peculiar people to be his church 
and heritage, to receive the law from his mouth, and to be the guardians 
of his promises, he " chose one place to place his name there 5" to be 
the place of his residence, where he appeared and was consulted. He 
gave directions for the construction of a temple, or house, in a par- 
ticular manner appropriated to him, and called his 3 which, though 
composed of worldly elements, was so framed, as to exhibit an apt 
resemblance, model, or pattern of heavenly things 3 to serve as a school 
for instruction, as a sanctuary for devotion. Might not the garden of 
Eden be a kind of temple, or sanctuar)'^, to Adam 3 a place chosen for 
the residence and appearance of God : a place designed to represent and 
give him ideas of heavenly things ; a place sacred to contemplation 
and devotion ? Something of this sort seems to be intimated by the 
account we have of the garden in the second chapter of Genesis, and 
to be confirmed by the references and allusions to it in other parts of 
the Scriptures. 

With this view we may observ^e, that though Paradise was created 
Avith the rest of the world, yet we are informed, the hand of God was 
in a more especial manner employed in preparing this place for the 

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habitation of man. " The Lord God planted a garden eastward in 
Eden. And out of the ground the Lord God made to grow every 
tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food. And a river went 
out of Eden, to water the garden -, and from thence it was parted, and 
became into four heads." Thus the great Architect of the universe, 
he who, in the language of the apostle, " built all things," is described 
as selecting, disposing, and adorning this wonderful and happy spot, 
wherein was to be placed the creature made after his own image and 
likeness, but a little lower than the angels. Does not tliis circumstance 
suggest to lis, that something more was intended than what generally 
enters into our idea of a garden ? 

AVhenever the garden of Eden is mentioned in the Scriptures it is 
called '' the garden of God," or "" the garden of the Lord," expressions 
which denote some peculiar designation of it to sacred purposes, some 
appropriation to God and his service, as is confessedly the case with 
many similar phrases, such as "house of God," " altar of God," "man 
of God," and the likej all implying, tliat the persons and things 
spoken of were consecrated to him, and set apart for religious use. 

When it is said, " The Lord God took the man, and put him into 
tlie garden of Eden, to dress it, and to keep it," the words undoubtedly 
direct us to conceive of it as a place for the exercise of the body. We 
readily acquiesce in tliis, as the truth, but not as the whole truth ; it 
being difficult to imagine, that so noble a creature, tlie lord of the 
world, should have no other or higher employment. Much more 
satisfaction will be found in supposing, that our lirst parents, while 
thus employed, like the priests under the law while they ministered in 
the temple, were led to contemplations of a more exalted nature 
" serving to the example and shadow of heavenly things." The powers 
of the body, and the faculties of the mind, might be set to work at the 
same time, by the same objects. And it is well known, that the words 
here used,* do as frequently denote mental as corporeal operations 3 
and under the ideas of dressing and keeping the sacred garden, may 
fairly imply the cultivation and observation of such religious 
truths as were pointed out by the external signs and sacraments which 
Paradise contained. 

That some of the objects in Eden were of a sacramental nature, we 
can hardly doubt, when we read of "the tree of knowledge," and "the 
tree of life." The fruit of a material tree could not, by any virtue 
inherent in it, convey " the knowledge of good and evil," or cause that, 
by eating it, a man should "live for ever." But such fruit might be 
ordained as a sacrament, upon the participation of which, certain 



IDr and "»*DU?- 



Home.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 613 

spiritual effects should follow. This is entirely conformable to reason, 
to the nature of man, and of religion. 

It is remarkable, that, in the earliest ages, a custom should be found 
to prevail, both among the people of God and idolaters, of setting apart 
and consecrating gardens and groves for the purpose of religious wor- 
ship. Thus Abraham, we are told, " planted a tree, or grove, at Beer- 
sheba, and called on the name of the everlasting God."* The 
worshippers of false gods are described, in the writings of the prophets, 
as "sacrificing in gardens," as **^ purifying themselves in gardens," 
behind " one tree in the midst j" and it is foretold, that they should be 
*' ashamed for the oaks which they had desired, and confounded for 
the gardens which they had chosen. "t A surprising uniformity in 
this point, may be traced through all the different periods of idolatry, 
as subsisting among the Canaanites, the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the 
Romans. Groves were dedicated to the gods, and particular species 
of trees were sacred to particular deities. The same usage prevailed 
among the Druids, in these parts of the world. And to this day, the 
aisles of our Gothic churches and. cathedrals are evidently built in 
imitation of those arched groves, which of old supplied the place of 
temples. It is not, therefore, without reason, that the author of a 
learned dissertation on the subject makes the following remark : — 
*^ These were the hallowed fanes of the ancients, in which they per- 
formed divine worship. And indeed, if we would trace up this rite to 
its origin, we must have recourse to the true God himself, who instituted 
in Paradise a sacred garden or grove, ordained Adam to be the high- 
priest of it, and consecrated in it two trees, for a public testimony of 
religion." 

But upon the supposition now made, that the garden of Eden served 
as a kind of temple for our first parents, might we not expect to find 
:some resemblance of it in the tabernacle and temple afterwards erected, 
by the appointment of God, for his residence in the midst of his people 
Israel ? The question is by no means absurd, especially if we recollect 
that it was the design of the Mosaic sanctuary, with its apparatus, to 
prefigure the restoration of those spiritual blessings which were forfeited 
and lost by the transgression in Paradise. Let us, therefore, inquire 
what satisfaction the Scriptures will afford us upon this point. 

The principal object in the garden of Eden with which revelation 
has brought us acquainted, are the plantations of trees, and the rivers 
of water by which those plantations were nourished and supported in 
glory and beauty. Was there any thing of this sort in or about the 
tabernacle and temple ? 



Gen. xxi. 2^. f Isa. Ixv. 3. Ixvi. 17. 



6r4 THE EFERY-BAY BOOK [Home. 



With regard to the plantations, two passages in the Psalms incline 
us to think there were such in the courts of the Jewish sanctuary, 
as well as in that of Eden : " I am like a green olive tree in the house 
of God.* The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, he shall grow 
like a cedar in Lebanon. Those that be planted in the house of the Lord, 
shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bring forth 
fruit in old age 3 they shall be fat and flourishing. "f These texts seem 
to suppose the real existence of such plantations, and, at the same time, 
to intimate the end and design of them -, namely, to represent the pro- 
gress and improvement of the faithful in virtue, through the influence 
of the divine favour. The same pleasing and expressive image is em- 
ployed to the same purpose, in the first Psalm — " He shall be like a 
tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his 
season ; his leaf also shall not wither, and whatsoever he doeth shall 

».j prosper." 

;||i III As to the rivers of water which supplied and refreshed the garden of 

'' Eden, and all its productions, we meet with something analogous to 

them, both in the tabernacle and temple. 

During the journey of the children of Israel from Egypt to Canaan, 
the camp in general, and the sacred tabernacle in particular, were 
supplied with water in a miraculous manner, not only at the time when 
Moses smote the rock, but the same supply accompanied them after- 
wards. — "They drank of that rock," that is, the water of that rock, 
*' which followed them." *' He led thee," says Moses, "through 
that great and terrible wilderness, wherein were fiery serpents and 
scorpions, and drought, where there was no water ; who made water 
to flow for thee out of the rock of flint. "| And these waters, lik^ 
those in Eden, were of a sacramental nature. " They did all drink the 
same spiritual drink ; for they drank of that spiritual rock which 
followed them, and that rock was Christ. "§ How lively a representa- 
tion of that heavenly grace which comforts our weary spirits, and 
enables us to accomplish our journey through the wilderness of life ! 

If, from the tabernacle, we proceed to the temple, we are there 
presented with the sacred streams of Siloah, breaking forth and flowing 
from the mount of God. In Ezekiel's famous vision of the new temple, 
there is a wonderful description, founded on the real situation of things 
at Mount Sion, explaining their signification, and unavoidably carrying 
our thoughts back to the waters and plantations of the original sanc- 
tuary in Eden : *' Afterward he brought me again unto the door of 
the house, and behold waters issued out from under the threshold of 



Psal. lii, 8. t Psal. xcii. 12, &c. % Deut. viii. 15. 

§ I Cor. X. 4, 



Home.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 615 

the house eastward. Then said he to me. These waters issue out 
toward the east country, and go down into the desert,, and go into the 
sea ; which being brought forth into the sea, the waters shall be healed. 
And it shall come to pass, that every thing that liveth, which moveth, 
whithersoever the rivers shall come, shall live. And by the river upon 
the bank thereof, on this side, and on that side, shall grow all trees for 
meat, whose leaf shall not fade 3 neither shall the fruit thereof be con- 
sumed : it shall bring forth new fruit according to his months, because 
their waters issued out of the sanctuary ; and the fruit thereof shall be 
for meat, and the leaves thereof for medicine."* 

When the prophets have occasion to foretell the great and mar- 
vellous change to be effected in the moral world, under the evangelical 
dispensation, they frequently borrow their ideas and expressions from 
the history of that garden, in which innocence and felicity once dwelt 
together, and which they represent as again springing up and blooming 
in the wilderness. Of the many passages which occur, two or three 
only shall be recited. " The Lord will comfort Sion, he will make 
her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord : 
joy and gladness shall be found therein^ thanksgiving and the voice of 
melody 5"t such joy and gladness, such thanksgiving and melody, at 
the restitution of all things, as were at their first creation, when "God 
saw every thing he had made, and behold, it was very good 3" — when 
"the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for 
joy. When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and 
their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of 
Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers in high places, and 
fountains in the midst of the valleys ; I will make the wilderness a 
pool of water, and the dry land springs of water. I will plant in the 
wilderness the cedar, the shittah tree, and the myrtle, and the oil tree ; 
I will set in the desert the fir tree and the pine, and the box tree 
together : that they may see, and know, and consider, and understand 
together, that the hand of the Lord hath done this, and the Holy One 
of Israel hath created it."| " The wilderness and the solitary place 
shall be glad for them ; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as 
the rose. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and 
singing ; the glory of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency 
of Carmel and Sharon : they shall see the glory of the Lord, and the 
excellency of our God."§ 

At the time appointed, these predictions received their accomplish- 
ment. Men " saw the glory of the Lord, and the excellency of our 



* Ezek. xlvii. i, &:c. f Isa. li. 3. + Isa. xli. 17, &c. 

§ Isa. XXXV. I, 2. 



6i6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Johnson. 

God." By the death and resurrection of the Redeemer, lost Paradise 
was regahied j and its inestimable blessings, wisdom, righteousness, and 
holiness, are now to be found and enjoyed in the Christian church. 
But as men are still men, and not angels, those blessings are still repre- 
sented and conveyed by sacramental symbols, analogous to the original 
ones in Eden. From the sacred font flows the water of life, to purify, 
to refresh, to comfort -, ''a. river goes out of Eden, to water the garden," 
and to '^baptize all nations j" while the eucharist answers to the fruits 
of the tree of life : at the holy table we may now " put forth our 
hands, and take, and eat, and live for ever." — Sermons. Vol. I. 
PP- 33-41. 



253.— CHANGES IN A LANGUAGE. 

[Samuel Johnson, 1709 — 1784. 

[Samuel Johnson's father was a bookseller. Johnson was born at Lichfield, 1709. 
He received a good education, and was sent to Oxford in his nineteenth year. Com- 
pelled to quit college before taking any degree, he set up a private academy in his 
native city. One of his (three) pupils was David Garrick. At the end of a year 
and a half he came to London and commenced writing for Cave, the printer, in the 
Gentleman's Magazine, published at the St. John's-gate, Clerkenwell, now a tavern 
frequented by a literary coterie, where "Dr. Johnson's" chair is reverently preserved. 
In 1738 he published his " London, a Satire ;" in 1749 his "Vanity of Human 
Wishes." In emulation of the older essayists he published, in numbers, 1750-52, 
" The Rambler," afterwards collected in four vols. 8vo. His Dictionary occupied 
him for seven years, and was published in 1755. The degree of LL.D. was con- 
ferred upon him by Trinity College, Dublin, and afterwards by the University of 
Oxford. " His imitations of Juvenal are among the best imitations of a classic 
author which we possess ; while," says an eminent critic, " in massive force of un- 
derstanding, multifarious knowledge, sagacity, and moral intrepidity, no writer[of the 
eighteenth century surpassed him." His High Church and Tory predilections show 
the sterner qualities of the citizen; his friendship for Oliver Goldsmith, Garrick, 
Reynolds, Boswell, &c., and his founding of the Literary Club — the first step 
towards linking the choicest spirits of the age in bonds of social brotherhood — 
attest to the finer and gentler qualities of the man. Johnson died 1784.] 

Total and sudden transformations of a language seldom happen ; 
conquests and migrations are now very rare ; but there are other 
causes of change, which, though slow in their operation, and invincible 
in their progress, are perhaps as much superior to human resistance, as 
the revolutions of the sky, or intumescence of the tide. Commerce, 
however necessary, however lucrative, as it depraves the manners, 
corrupts the language j they that have frequent intercourse with 
strangers, to whom they endeavour to accommodate themselves, must 
in time learn a mingled dialect, like the jargon which serves the 
traffickers on the Mediterranean and Indian coasts. This will not 
always be confined to the Exchange, the warehouse, or the port, but 



Jofenscm-] OF MODERN LIZ I? AT ~E. 617 

will be commmiicated bj d£^;iee.- : vi^- m^: -.':.- ; : ^ : r 

at last incoiporated with the car:-: i : r :: 

There are Jikewise intanal c; : t t :: : : r 7:^ it 
most likelj to cootiaae loDgiR\ : : : :: ~ :. : t _: i 

nation raised a little, and bat a : t : t r ::: ;. :t: :: zi 

strangei^^ and totallj emplcv r 11 : : : : r 1 7 : t 1: r t 

either without books, or, litt : t : : : r 17 L 1. - i — ji 

Teiy few : m^i thos bnsied i : : t :: : t : :. i 1 r : . i : : ; 15 

common nse requires, wot: : : r :: 7ir ::: :z:t :: tx::r 5 : :t 
same notions by the same i^i: Z:: j^ :::. 1 : :: r 

espected in a people pcJishT: ;: :■ ;:i : :t; : : :, 

where one part of the conin :. i : ; :it: :r : : : j : : ; 7 v 
the labour of the other. T::. t ~ : : ti: : :t:: 7^ 

alw2^ beenlaiging thestc7: : .i-i: ;„; t tr .: :t; t :: : - 
ledge, whether real <«■ fencit i 7- : : : : : t r : : : i - 

tions of words. When the zi :m ^ :i: : :^t: : rr : 77 i : 7 

range after conTenience 5 wLt: : : .7 : 2.7 ^ tt ; : : : i- 

tion, it will shift opinions: :: 1 7 :;r: : t :: ;: 

ei^iessed it must perish witi ii ; r : : : lir,. :i ^^ 

innovate speedi in the same i :::.:: :. : . : t ' - ~ :^ 1 : : : t . 

As by the cultivation of :: i: i\ z:.:-i 1 7 ri.T :.T7£ed, it 
will be more Punished witt tt : ; : : :_t . rii?e: 

the geometrician will talk 01 1 : : : r : :: :_. ^r ::t : t 

of a wild h«t)5 and the i : ;: : iir :t tiiT :i i 

phl^jmatic del^^ CopioTi5:r: :: tt \ r t t::::::. i^^ :; 

capricious choice, by which ; - . 7 r r :- - r : ; r i : : . r i 

degraded ; vic^tudes of fi r : r. . t . : : - . t : = i : " t : : 
extend the signification of Vr 1- T : 7 r : t : :t Z 

make hourly encroachmen:- r : :: ^ t : - e 

cnrreat s^ise : ptonundatioz :t t : : . r i 

the pen must atl^igth comr _ t Z : t t 7 

at one time or othCT, by pu : ! : :; t r : : 

knowing the cmginal impc r : ^ : ; Z t . - ::. 

licentiousne^ confi>und dis: . : : ; 77 _: :- rr __- . r- 

ness increases, some expres: : - r irrri - ::: . ■• 7. 

Tulgar for the ddicate, others i: :; r : : : r 

gay and airy; new phrases srr . erT7 r : t r 

same reasons, be in tiire : ^ : t t r 

English language, alio t t - 

daced, but pTX>poses thz: : :.. r -. : 7 - - : ^r 7 1 ' 
Bnt what makes a wen _: r t r. n - .r 

forbear it? And how shall it r : t 

offensive idea, or recalled again ::.:: -.7 :: r.:;... 1 7 . 



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THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Johnson. 



it has once by disuse become unfamiliar, and by unfamiliarity un- 
pleasing. 

There is another cause of alteration more prevalent than any other, 
which yet, in the present state of the world, cannot be obviated. A 
mixture of two languages will produce a third, distinct from both, 
and they will always be mixed, where the chief part of education, 
and the most conspicuous accomplishment, is skill in ancient or in 
foreign tongues. He that has long cultivated another language, will 
find its words and combinations crowd upon his memory j and haste 
and negligence, refinement and affectation, will obtrude borrowed 
terms and exotic expressions. 

The great pest of speech is frequency of translation. No book was 
ever turned from one language into another, without imparting some- 
thing of its native idiom ; this is the most mischievous and compre- 
hensive innovation ; single words may enter by thousands, and the 
fabric of the tongue continue the same, but new phraseology changes 
much at once ; it alters not the single stones of the building, but the 
order of the columns. If an academy should be established for the 
cultivation of our style, which I, who can never wish to see depen- 
dance multiplied, hope the spirit of English liberty will hinder or 
destroy, let them, instead of compiling grammars and dictionaries, 
endeavour, with all their influence, to stop the licence of translators, 
whose idleness and ignorance, if it be suffered to proceed, will reduce 
us to babble a dialect of France. 

If the changes that we fear be thus irresistible what remains but to 
acquiesce with silence, as in the other insurmountable distresses of 
humanity? It remains that we retard what we cannot repel, that we 
palliate what we cannot cure. Life may be lengthened by care, 
though death cannot be ultimately defeated : tongues, like govern- 
ments, have a natural tendency to degeneration ; we have long 
preserved our constitution, let us make some struggles for our 
language. 

In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to 
be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labour of years, to the 
honour of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of 
philosophy to the nations of the Continent. The chief glory of every 
people arises from its authors 1 Whether I shall add anything by my 
own writings to the reputation of English literature, must be left to 
time : much of my life has been lost under the pressure of disease ; 
much has been trifled away 3 and much has always been spent in pro- 
vision for the day that was passing over me 3 but I shall not think my 
employment useless or ignoble, if by my assistance foreign nations, 
and distant ages, gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and 



Richardson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 619 

understand the teachers of truth : if my labours aifbrd Hght to the 
repositories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to 
Milton, and to Boyle. — Preface to Dictionary. 



254.— CLARISSA HARLOWE DYING. 

[Samuel Richardsox, 16S9 — 1761. 

[Samuel Richardson was the son of a joiner, residing in Derbyshire. He was born 
in i68g, and received only a very ordinary- education. He was bound apprentice to 
Mr. Wilde, a printer, in London. After the expiration of his apprenticeship, he 
became his masters foreman and corrector of the press, and finally set up in business 
for himself in Fleet-street, and afterwards in Salisbur}--square. He obtained by the 
interest of Mr. Onslow, Speaker of the House of Commons, the printing of the 
journcds of the House; was chosen Master of the Stationers' Company, and pur- 
chased a moiety of the patent of law printer to the king. In 1 740 he published 
" Pamela," which obtained great success. This novel was followed b}- "' Clarissa 
Harlowe,'' which is considered his masterpiece, and by •'Sir Charles Grandison." 
Richardson died in 1761.] 

The colonel* begged, if not improper, that he might see her, though 
sleeping. He said that his impatience would not let him stay till she 
awaked. Yet he would not have her disturbed : and should be glad 
to contemplate her sweet features when she saw him not ; and asked, 
if shef thought he could go in and come out without disturbing her? 

She believed he might, she answered 3 for her chair's back was 
towards the door. 

He said, he would take care to withdraw if she awoke, that his 
sudden appearance might not surprise her. 

Mrs. Smith, stepping up before us, bid Mrs. Lovick and nurse not 
to stir, when we entered : and then we went up softly together. 

We beheld tiie lady in a charming attitude. Dressed, as I told you 
before, in her virgin white, she was sitting in her elbow-chair, !Mrs. 
Lovick close by her in another chair, with her left arm round her 
neck supporting it, as it were j for it seems the lady had bid her do 
so, saying, she had been a mother to her, and she would delight her- 
self in thinking she was in her mamma's arms ; for she found herself 
drowsy ; perhaps, she said, for the last time she should ever be so. 

One faded cheek rested upon the good woman's bosom, the kindly 
warmth of which had overspread it with a faint but charming flush ; 
the other paler and hollow, as if already iced over by death. Her 
hands, white as the lily, with her meandering veins more transparent 
blue than ever I had seen even hers (veins so soon, alas I to be choked 
up by the congealment of that purple stream, which already so lan- 



* Morden. f Mrs. Smith. 



620 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Richardson. 

guidly creeps rather than flows through them !) her hands hanging 
lifelessly, one before her, the other grasped by the right hand of the 
kind widow, whose tears bedewed the sweet face which her motherly 
bosom supported, although unfelt by the fair sleeper j and either in- 
sensibly to the good woman, or that she would not disturb her to wipe 
them off. or to change her posture 5 her aspect was sweetly calm and 
serene ; and though she started now and then, yet her sleep seemed 
easy 3 her breath indeed short and quick, but tolerably free, and not 
like that of a dying person. 

In this heart-moving attitude she appeared to us when we approached 
her, and came to have her lovely face before us. 

The colonel, sighing often, gazed upon her with his arms folded, 
and with the most profound and affectionate attention ; till at last, on 
her starting and fetching her breath with greater difficulty than before, 
he retired to a screen that was drawn before her house* as she calls 
it, which, as I have heretofore observed, stands under one of the 
windows. This screen was placed there at the time she found her- 
self obliged to take to her chamber j and in the depth of our con- 
cern and the fulness of other discourse at our first interview, I had 
forgotten to apprise the colonel of what he would probably see. 

Retiring thither, he drew out his handkerchief, and overwhelmed 
with grief, seemed unable to speak ; but on casting his eye beyond, 
he soon broke silence ; for, struck with the shape of the coffin, he 
lifted up a purplish-coloured cloth that was spread over it, and starting 
back, '* Good God !" said he, *' what's here ?" Mrs. Smith standing 
next to him. "Why," said he, with great emotion, "is my cousin 
suffered to indulge her sad reflections with such an object before 
her?" 

" Alas ! sir," replied the good woman, " who should control her ? We 
are all strangers about her in a manner 3 and yet we have expostulated 
with her on this sad occasion." 

" I ought," said I (stepping softly up to him, the lady again falling 
into a doze), '*to have apprised you of this. I was here when it was 
brought in, and was never so shocked in my life. But she bad none 
of her friends about her, and no reason to hope for any of them to 
come near her ; and assured she should not recover, she was resolved 
to leave as little as possible, especially as to what related to her per- 
son, to her executor. But it is not a shocking object to her, though 
it may be to every one else." 

" Curse upon the hard-heartedness of those," said he, " who occa- 



* A coffin. 



Richardson.] OF MODERX LITERATURE. 621 

sioaed her to miike so sad a provision for herself! What must her 
reflections have been all the time she was thinking of it and giving 
orders about it ? And what must they be every time she turns her 

head towards it ? These uncommon geniuses but indeed she 

should hav^e been controlled in it had 1 been here." 

The lady fetched a profound sigh, and, starting, it broke off our 
talk ; and the colonel then withdrew further behind the screen, that 
bis sudden appearance might not surprise her. 

"Where am I ?" said she. " How drowsy I am ! How long have 
I dozed? Don't go, sir (for I was retiring). I am very stupid, and 
shall be more and more so, I suppose." 

She then offered to raise herself, but being ready to faint through 
weakness, was forced to sit down again, reclining her head on her 
chair back J and after a few moments, '^ I believe now, my good 
friend," said she, ** all your kind trouble will soon be over. I have 
slept, but am not refreshed, and my lingers' ends seem numbed — 
have no feeling ! (holding them up) — 'tis time to send the letter to 
my good Norton." 

"Shall I, madam, send my servant post with it?" 

" Oh no, sir, I thank you. It will reach the dear woman too soon 
(as she will think) by post I" 

I told her this was not post day. 

" Is it Wednesday still?" she said. "Bless me! I know not how 
time goes : but very tediously 'tis plain. And now I think that I must 
soon take to my bed. All will be more conveniently, and with least 
trouble over there — will it not, Mrs. Lovick ? — I think, sir (turning to 
me), I have left nothing to these last incapacitating hours. Nothing 
either to say or to do. I bless God I have not. If I had, how un- 
happy should I be ! Can you, sir, remind me of anything necessary 
to be done or said, to make your otfice easy ?" 

*' If, madam, your cousin jNIorden should come, you would be glad 
to see him, I presume ?" 

" lam too weak to wish to see my cousin now. It would but dis- 
compose me and him too. Yet, if he come while I can see, I will 
see him, were it but to thank him for former favours, and for his 
present kind intentions to me. Has anybody been here from 
him : ■ * 

" He has called, and will be here, madam, in half an hour, but he 
feared to surprise you." 

"' Nothing can surprise me now, except my mamma were to favour 
me with her last blessing in person. That would be a welcome sur- 
prise to me even yet. But did my cousin come purposely to town to 
see me ?" 



622 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Knight. 



" YeSj madam. I took the liberty to let him know by a line last 
Monday how ill you were." 

" You are very kind, sir. I am and have been greatly obliged to 
you. But I think I shall be pained to see him now, because he will 
be concerned to see me. And yet, as I am not so ill as I shall pre- 
sently be — the sooner he comes the better. But if he come, what 
shall I do about the screen ? He will chide me very probably, and I 
cannot bear chiding now. Perhaps (leaning upon Mrs. Lovick and 
Mrs. Smith) I can walk into the next apartment to receive him." 

She motioned to rise, but was ready to faint again, and was forced 
to sit still. — Clarissa Harlowe, vol. viii. Letter 16. 



i^ 



[Charles Kmght, 1791. 
[Charles Knight was born at Windsor in 1791, his father being a bookseller in the 
royal borough. In 18 11, in partnership with his father, he established the fVindsor 
and Eton. Express. In 1820, 1821, and 1822 he edited, in connexion with the late 
Mr. Locker, Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital (and father of Frederick Locker, 
the poet), "The Plain Dealer," the first attempt to produce cheap literature of a high 
character. In 1822 Mr. Knight removed to London, and started, at Pall Mall East, 
" Knight's Quarterly Magazine," to which Macaulay was a contributor. In 1827 he 
became associated with the Useful Knowledge Society, and edited many of its publi- 
cations. " The Penny Magazine," which he commenced in 1832, was continued for 
eleven years; and in 1838 "The Penny Cyclopaedia" made its first appearance. 
During the course of this work Mr. Knight expended upon it forty thousand pounds 
in original contributions, in addition to his own valuable matter. Among his other 
works his " Shakspeare," " Pictorial History of England," " London," and the series 
of " Shilling Volumes," — bear testimony to his genius and industry. As a book for 
the fireside, or for a Reading Society, Mr. Knight's " Half-hours with the best 
Authors" will be found invaluable; while the student of history, who wishes to 
obtain the leading facts without the trouble of sifting them from the more bulky 
volumes, will find in "Half-hours of English History" that it has been admirably 
done to his hand.] 

At the end of the year 1086, when he had been seated nineteen years 
upon the throne of England, William went over to the Continent with 
a mighty army to wage war with Philip, King of France, for the pos- 
session of the city of Mantes and the country of the Vexin. But 
shortly after his arrival in Normandy he fell sick, and kept his bed. 
As he had advanced in years he had grown excessively fat. King Philip 
said, as a good joke among his courtiers, that his cousin William was a 
long while lying in, but that no doubt there would be a fine churching 
as soon as he should be delivered. On bearing this coarse and insipid 
jest the Conqueror of England swore by the most terrible of his oaths 
— by the splendour and birth of Christ — that he would be churched in 
Notre Dame, the Cathedral oi Paris, and present so many wax torches 



Knight.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 5:$ 

that all France should be set in a blaze * It was not until the end of 
July, 1087, ^^* ^® ^'^'^ ^ * state to mount Ms war-horse. He soon 
came mth fire and sword into the Vexin countiy. The com was 
almost ready for the sickle, the grapes for the ^vane-press, when he 
marched his cavalry through the com-fidds and made his soldiery tear 
tip the vines by the roots and cut down the pleasant trees. Mantes 
was soon taken, and consigned to the flames. Neither house nor 
cottage, nay, neither church near monasteiy was spared. As the Con- 
queror rode up to view the ruin he had caused, his war-horse put his 
fore feet on some embers, or hot cinders, and then swerved or plunged 
so violently that the heavy rider was thrown upon the high pommel of 
the saddle, and grievously bruised. The king dismounted in great 
pain* and never more put foot in stirrup. Forthwith quitting the 
burning town, he was carried slowly in a litter to Rouen, and again 
laid in his bed. It was soon evident to all, and even to himself, that 
his last hour was approaching. Being troubled bv the noise and bustle 
of Rouen, and desirous of dying in a holy place, he made his people 
carry him to the monastery of St. Gervas, outside the city walls. He 
lingered for six weeks, during which he was surrounded by doctors, 
priests, and monks. On the nearer approach of death his heart softened, 
and though he preserved the kingly decorum and conversed calmly on 
the wonderful events of his life, he is said to have felt the vanity of all 
human grandeur, and a keen remorse for the crimes and cruelties he 
had committed. He sent money to IMantes to rebuild the churches 
and houses of religion he had burned, and he ordered large sums to be 
paid to the churches and monasteries in England, which he had plun- 
dered and impoverished. He released all his state prisoners, as well 
Saxon as others, some of whom had pined in dungeons for more than 
twenty years. Robert, his eldest son, who had had many violent 
quarrels with his fether, was absent, but his two younger sons, William 
and Henry, who were successively kings of England, were assiduous 
round the death-bed, waiting impatiently for the declaration of his last 
will. A day or two before his death the Conqueror assembled some 
of his prelates and chief barons in his sick chamber, and raising him- 
self in his bed, he with a solemn and ghastly coimtenance declared in 
their presence that he bequeathed the duchy of Normandy and its 
other dependencies to his eldest son, Robert. " As to the crown of 
England," said the dying monarch, " I bequeath it to no one, as I did 
not receive it, like the duchy of Normandy, in inheritance from my 
father, but acquired it by conquest and the shedding of blood with 
mine own good sword. The succession to that kingdom I therefore 

* It isas the ciistom for women at their churching to carry lighted tapers in their 
bands and present than at the altar. 



624 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Knight. 

leave to the decision of God, only desiring most fervently that my son 
William, who hath ever been dutiful to me, may obtain it, and prosper 
in it." ''And what do you give unto me, oh ! my father?" eagerly 
cried Prince Henry. " Five thousand pounds weight of silver out of 
my treasury." " But what can I do with five thousand pounds of 
silver, if I have neither lands nor a home?" Here the dying king put 
on the look of a prophet, and said, " Be patient, O Henry ! and have 
trust in the Lord : suffer thy elder brothers to precede thee, and thy 
time will come after theirs." Henry the Beauclerc, and the craftiest 
and cleverest of the unloving brotherhood, went straight and drew the 
silver, which he weighed with great care, and then furnished himself 
with a strong coffer to keep his treasure in. William Rufus left the 
king's bedside at the same time, and, without waiting to see his father 
breathe his last, hastened over to England to seize the royal treasures 
deposited in Winchester Castle, and to look after his crown. 

About sunrise, on the 9th of September, the Conqueror was roused 
from a stupor into which he had fallen by the sound of bells. He 
eagerly inquired what the noise meant, and was told that they were 
ringing the hour of prime in the church of St. Mary. He lifted his 
clasped hands to heaven, and saying, " I recommend my soul to my 
Lady Mary, the holy mother of God," instantly expired. His last 
faint sigh was the signal for a general flight and scramble. The 
knights, priests, and doctors, who had passed the night near him, put 
on their spurs, mounted their horses, and galloped off to their several 
homes to have an eye to their own interests. The king's servants and 
some vassals of inferior rank proceeded to rifle the apartments of the 
arms, silver vessels, linen, and royal dresses, and then were to horse 
and away like their betters. Some took one thing, some another j 
nothing worth the carrying was left behind — no, not so much as the 
bed-clothes. From prime to tierce, or for about three hours, the corpse 
of the mighty Conqueror, abandoned by sons, friends, servants, and 
all, lay in a state of almost perfect nakedness on the bare boards of the 
chamber in which he had expired. The citizens of Rouen either ran 
about the streets asking news and advice from everyone they met, or 
busied themselves in concealing their money and valuables. At last 
the clergy and the monks recovered the use of their faculties, and 
thought of the decent duties owing to the mortal remains of their 
sovereign ; and, arraying themselves in their best habits, and forming 
in order of procession, they went with crucifix, burning tapers, and 
incense, to pray over the abandoned and dishonoured body for the peace 
of its soul. The Archbishop of Rouen ordained that the king should 
be interred at Caen in the church of St. Stephen, which he had built 
and royally endowed. But even now there was none to do it honour : 



Knight.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 625 

his sons, his brothers, his relations, were all absent, and of all the Con- 
queror's officers and rich vassals, not one was found to take charge of 
the obsequies. At length a poor knight, named Herluin, who lived in 
the neighbourhood, charged himself with the trouble and expense of 
the funeral, '^"out of his natural good nature and love of God." This 
poor and pious knight engaged the proper attendance and a wain ; he 
conveyed the king's body on the cart to the banks of the Seine, and 
from thence in a barge down the river and its estuary to the city of 
Caen. Gilbert, Abbot of St. Stephen's, with all his monks, came out 
of Caen to meet the body, and other churchmen and the inhabitants of 
the city joining these, a considerable procession was formed. But as 
they went along a hre suddenly broke out in the town ; laymen and 
clerks ran to extinguish it, and the abbot and his monks were left 
alone to conduct the remains of the king to the church which he had 
founded. Even the last burial service did not pass undisturbed. The 
neighbouring bishops and abbots assembled for this solemn ceremony. 
The mass and requiem had been said 3 the incense was filling the 
church with its holy perfume, the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced 
the panegyric, and the body was about to be lowered into the grave 
prepared for it in the church between the altar and the choir, when a 
man, suddenly rising in the crowd, exclaimed, with a loud and angry 
voice which made the prelates and monks to start and cross themselves 
— " Bishop, the man whom thou hast praised was a robber ! The very 
ground on which we are standing is mine, and is the site where my 
father's house stood. He took it from me by violence, to build this 
church on it. I reclaim it as my right ; and in the name of God, I 
forbid you to bury him here, or cover him with my glebe." The man 
who spoke thus boldly was Asseline Fitz Arthur, who had often asked 
a just compensation from the king in his lifetime. Many of the 
persons present confirmed the truth of his statement ; and, after some 
parley and chaffering, the bishop paid him sixty shillings for the grave 
alone, engaging to procure him hereafter the full value of the rest of 
his land. The body, dressed in royal robes, but without a coffin, was 
then lowered into the narrow tomb ; the rest of the ceremony was 
hurried over, the people dispersed, the prelates went to their homes, 
and the abbot and monks of St. Stephen's went to their cloisters, 
leaving only one brother of the house to sprinkle holy water over the 
flat stone that covered the grave, and to pray for the soul of the de- 
parted. The traveller may yet stand and muse uver that grave in the 
quaint old Norman church at Caen 3 but the equestrian statue of the 
Conqueror, placed against one of the external pillars of the church, 
has been wantonly and barbarously mutilated. — Half-Hours of English 
History. 

s s 



626 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Montagu. 



m 



256.— LADY MARY W. MONTAGU'S VISIT TO A TURKISH LADY. 

[Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 1690 — 1762. 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was the eldest daughter of Evelyn Pierrepont, 
Earl of Kingston, afterwards Duke. She was born at Thoresby, in Notting- 
hamshire, in 1690. "There was genius as well as activity in her blood," says Leigh 
Hunt. " The mother of Beaumont the dramatist was a Pierrepont; and curiously 
enough, Lady Mary in another Beaumont of Coleorton (the same stock) had a com- 
mon ancestor with Villiers, the witty Duke of Buckingham, who was her great- 
uncle." She married Edward Wortley Montagu, a grandson of the Earl of Sand- 
wich. In 1716 her husband was appointed ambassador to Constantinople, and took 
Lady Mary with him to Turkey. Her letters from the East secured her a position 
as a writer of genius. She introduced inoculation for the small-pox into Europe, 
testing it first on the person of her own son. Lady Mary^s friendship with Pope, 
and the enmity which followed it, are well known. In 1739 she left England on 
account of her health, and settled at Brescia, where she continued till 1 761, when she 
returned to England to visit her daughter, who had married the Earl of Bute. She 
died the following year. Leigh Hunt apostrophizes her thus: — "Thy poems are 
little, being but a little wit in rhyme, vers de societe, but thy prose is much, admi- 
rable, better than acute, idiomatical, off-hand, conversational without inelegance, fresh 
as the laugh on the young cheek, and full of brain."] 

At Adrianople I was invited to dine with the Grand Vizier's lady, and 
it was with a great deal of pleasure I prepared myself for an entertain- 
ment which was never before given to any Christian. I thought I 
should very little satisfy her curiosity (which I did not doubt was a 
considerable motive to the invitation) by going in a dress she was used 
to see* and therefore dressed myself in the Court habit of Vienna, 
which is much more magnificent than ours. However, I chose to 
go incognita, to avoid any disputes about ceremony, and went in a 
Turkish coach, attended only by my woman that held up my train and 
the Greek lady who was my interpretess. 

I was met at the court door by her black eunuch, who helped me 
out of the coach with great respect, and conducted me through several 
rooms, where her female slaves, finely dressed, were ranged on each 
side. In the innermost I found the lady sitting on a sofa, in a sable 
vest. She advanced to meet me, and introduced me to half a dozen of 
her friends with great civility. She seemed a very good woman, near 
fifty years old. I was surprised to observe so little magnificence in 
her house, the furniture being all very moderate, and, except the 
habits and numbers of her slaves, nothing about her appeared expen- 
sive. She guessed at my thoughts, and told me she was no longer of 
an age to spend either her time or money in superfluities -, that her 
whole expense was in charity, and her whole employment praying to 
God. There was no affectation in this speech. Both she and her 



* Lady Mary had adopted the Turkish costume. 



Lewes.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 627 

husband are entirely given up to devotion. He never looks upon any- 
other woman, and, what is more extraordinary, touches no bribes, 
notwithstanding the example of all his predecessors. He is so scru- 
pulous on this point, he would not accept Mr. Wortley's present till he 
had been assured over and over again that it was a settled perquisite of 
his place at the entrance of every ambassador. She entertained me 
with all kind of civility till dinner came in, which was served, one dish 
at a time, to a vast number, all finely dressed after their manner, which 
I do not think so bad as it has been sometimes represented. 

I am a very good judge of their eating, having lived three weeks in 
the house of an Effendi at Belgrade, who gave us very magnificent 
dinners, dressed by his own cooks. The first week they pleased me 
extremely ; but I own I then began to grow weary of their table, and 
desired our own cook might add a dish or two after our manner. But 
I attribute this to custom, and am very much inclined to believe that 
an Indian, who had never tasted of either, would prefer their cookery 
to ours. Their sauces are very high, and all the roast very much done. 
They use a great deal of very rich spice. The soup is served for the 
last dish, and they have at least as great a variety of ragouts as we have. 
I was very sorry I could not eat of as many as the good lady would 
have had me, who was very earnest in serving me of everything. The 
treat concluded with coffee and perfumes, which is a high mark of 
respect 3 two slaves kneeling perfumed my hair, clothes, and handker- 
chief. After this ceremony she commanded her slaves to play and 
dance, which they did with their guitars in their hands. She excused 
to me their want of skill, saying, she took no care to accomplish them 
in that art. I returned her thanks, and soon after took my leave. — - 
Letters and ^Vbrks. 



257.— LIFE OF PLATO. 

[George H. Lewes, 1817. 

[George H. Lewes was born April i8th, 181 7, in London. He was educated partly 
abroad, partly by the late Dr. Burney, at Greenwich. He also studied in Germany 
for two years. He has largely contributed to English literature, and ranks as one 
of the first writers of the age. His works are a " Biographical History of Philosophy," 
"The Spanish Drama: Lope de Vega and Calderon," a "Life of Robespierre," 
*' Comte's Philosophy of the Sciences," " The Life and Works of Goethe," " Sea- 
side Studies," "Philosophy of Common Life;" "The Noble Heart," a tragedy; 
*' Ranthorpe," "Rose, Blanche, and Violet," novels. He is also a contributor to 
all the first-class periodicals. He was editor of the Leader from 1849 ^^ 1854, 
since which time he has devoted himself to scientific pursuits.] 

Perhaps of all ancient writers Plato's name is the best known. Homer 
himself is unknown to many who have some dim notion of Plato, as 

s s 2 



628 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lewes. 

the originator of the so-called Platonic love. There is a great and wide- 
spread interest about the Grecian sage. The young and romantic have 
strange romantic ideas of him. " The general reader " — especially if 
a dabbler in fashionable philosophy, or rather, in the philosophy cur- 
rent in fashionable novels — has a very exalted notion of him as the 
"great Idealist." The theological reader regards him with aifection, 
as the stout and eloquent upholder of the doctrine of the immateriality 
and immortality of the soul. The literary critic regards him as the 
type of metaphysical eloquence 3 and classes with him every vapoury, 
mystical, metaphorical writer of '' poetical philosophy." 

Now, except that of the theologian, these notions, derived at second 
hand, are all false. It would be idle to inquire how such extravagant 
opinions came into circulation. Enough for us that they are" false. 
Plato was anything but " dreamy 5" anything but " an Idealist," as that 
phrase is usually understood. He was an inveterate dialectician, a 
severe and abstract thinker, and a great quibbler. His metaphysics 
were of a nature to frighten away all but the most determined students, 
so abstract and so subtle were they. His morals and politics, so far 
from having any romantic tinge, were the ne plus ultra of logical 
severity : hard, uncompromising, and above humanity. In a word, 
Plato the man was almost completely absorbed in Plato the Dialec- 
tician ; he had learned to look upon human passion as a disease, and 
human pleasure as a frivolity : the only thing worth living for was 
truth. Dialectics was the noblest exercise of humanity. 

Even the notions respecting his style are erroneous. It is not the 
"poetical" metaphorical style usually asserted. It has unmistakeable 
beauties, but resembles no other writing we are acquainted with. Its 
immense power is dramatic power. The best dialogues are inimitable 
scenes of comedy. Character, banter, irony, and animation are there ; 
but scarcely any imagery, and that seldom beautiful.* His object was 
to refute, or to convince ; his illustrations are therefore homely and 
familiar. When fit occasion does arrive, he can be eloquent and 
poetical. He clothes the myths in language of splendid beauty j and 
the descriptions of scenic loveliness in the " Phaedrus " are perfectly 
ravishing. But such passages are as oases in the arid desert of 
dialectics. 

In truth, Plato is a very difficult, and, as far as regards matter, some- 



* " Even upon abstract subjects, whether moral, metaphysical, or mathematical, the 
language of Plato is clear as the running stream, and, in simplicity and sweetness, vies 
with the humble violet which perfumes the vale." — Dr. Enjield, ii. p. 221. 

Whenever you meet with such trash as this, be certain that the writer of it never read 
Plato, Aristotle capitally describes Plato's style as "a middle species of diction between 
verse and prose." It has rhythm rather than imagery. 



Lewes.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 629 

what repulsive writer : this is the reason of his being so seldom read j 
for we must not be deceived by the many editions. He is often 
mentioned and often quoted, at second hand -, but he is rarely read. 
Scholars and critics usually attack one dialogue out of curiosity. Their 
curiosity seldom inspirits them to further progress. The difficulty of 
mastering the ideas, and their unsatisfactory nature when mastered, are 
barriers to any general acquaintance with Plato. But those who per- 
severe believe themselves repaid ; the journey has been difficult, but 
it was worth performing. 

We have performed that journey, and can honestly cry "courage!" 
to those who lag behind. Perhaps our brief account of Plato and his 
writings may be some inducement and some preparation. 

Aristocles, surnamed Plato (the broad-browed),* was the son of 
Ariston and Perictione, was born at Athens or ^gina, Olymp. 87. 3, 
on the 7th Thargelion (about the middle of May). His youth conse- 
quently falls about the time of the Peloponnesian war, the most active 
and brilliant period of Grecian thought and action. His lineage was 
illustrious : on the maternal side connected with Solon. 

■X- -x- * -x- * * * 

Plato's education was excellent 5 and in gymnastics he was suffi- 
ciently skilled to contend at the Pythian and Isthmian games. Like 
a true Greek, he attached extreme importance to gymnastics, as doing 
for the body what dialectics did for the mind 3 and, like a true Greek, 
he did not suffer these corporeal exercises to absorb all his time and 
attention : poetry, music, and rhetoric were assiduously cultivated, and 
with some success. He wrote an epic poem, besides some tragedies, 
dithyrambics, lyrics, and epigrams. The epic he is said to have burned 
in a fit of despair, on comparing it with Homer. The tragedies he 
burned on becoming acquainted with Socrates. The epigrams have 
been partially preserved. One of them is very beautiful : — 

aaTEQaq d(Ta9peig, daTrjp snog' eWe ysvoiiJLrjv 
ovpavbg, cjg TroXXolg ofifiaaiv e'ig as ^Xsttoj. 

" Thou gazest on the stars, my Life ! ah ! gladly would I be 
Yon starry skies, with thousand eyes, that I might gaze on thee !"+ 

His studies of poetry were mingled with those of philosophy, which 



* Some writers incline to the opinion that "Plato" was the epithet of broad- 
browed ; others, of broad-shouldered ; others, again, that it was expressive of the breadth 
of his style. This last is absurd. The author of the article " Plato " in the " Penny 
Cyclopaedia" pronounces all the above explanations to be "idle, as the name of Plato 
was of common occurrence among the Athenians of that time." But surely Aristocles 
was not endowed with this surname of Plato without cause? Unless he derived the 
name from a relation, he must have derived it from one of the above causes. 
f The above translation is by Mr. Swynfen Jervis. 



630 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lewes. 

he must have cultivated early, for we know that ht was onlj twenty 
when be first went to Socrates, and we also know that he had been 
taught by Cratylus before be knew Socrates. Early he must have felt 

** A presence that disturbed him with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
Of something fer more deeply interfused. 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
And the round ocean, and the living air. 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things.'"* 

A deep and meditative spirit led him to question nature in her secret 
haunts. The sombre philosophy of Heraclitus suited well with his 
melancholy youth. Scepticism, which was the fever of that age, had 
seized on Plato, as on all the rest. This scepticism, together with that 
imperious craving for belief which struggled with the scepticism, both 
found breathing room in the doctrines of Socrates -, and the young 
scholar found that, without impugning the justice of his doubts, he 
could escape them by seeking Truth elsewhere. 

He remained with Socrates ten years 3 and was separated from him 
only by death. He attended his beloved master during the trial j 
undertook to plead his cause : indeed, began a speech which the vio- 
lence of the judges would not allow him to continue j and pressed his 
master to accept a sum of money sufficient to purchase his life. 

On the death of Socrates, he went to Megara to visit Euclid, as we 
mentioned before. From thence he proceeded to Cyrene, where he 
was instructed in mathematics by Theodorus, whom he had known in 
Athens, if we may credit the " Theaetetus," where Theodorus is repre- 
sented discoursing with Socrates. From Cyrene he went to Egypt, in 
company, it is said, with Euripides. There is very little znthoTiXy for 
this visit, and that little questionable. Certain it is that his stay there 
has been greatly exaggerated. There is no trace in his works of 
Egyptian research. " All he tells us of Egypt indicates at most a very 
scanty acquaintance with the subject, and, although he praises the 
industry of the priests, his estimate of their scientific attainments is far 
from favourable. "t 

In these travels, the broad-browed meditative man greatly enlarged 
the Socratic doctrine, and, indeed, introduced antagonistic elements. 
But he strictly preserved the Socratic Method. ''^ Whilst studious 
youth," says Valerius Maximus, *' were crowding to Athens from every 
quarter in search of Plato for their master, that philosopher was wan- 



* Wordsworth, " Tintern Abbey." f " Ritter," ii. 147. 



Whitder.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 631 

dering along the winding banks of the Nile, or the vast plains of a 
barbarous country, himself a disciple to the old men of Egypt." 

He returned at last, and eager scholars flocked around him. With 
a mind richly stored in foreign travel and constant meditation, he 
began to emulate his beloved master, and devoted himself to teaching. 
Like Socrates, he taught gratuitously. In the world-renowned grove 
of Hecademus he founded the academy. This grove was planted with 
lofty plane trees, and adorned with temples and statues 3 a gentle 
stream rolled through it, with 

" A sound as of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

Which to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune." 

It was a delicious retreat, ^''for contemplation framed." The long- 
ing thoughts of posterity have often hovered round it, and made it 
the centre of myriad associations. Poets have sung of it j philosophers 
have sighed for it. 

" See there the olive grove of Academe, — 
Plato's retirement, — where the Attic bird 
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.'* 

In such a spot, where the sound 

" Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites 
To studious musing," 

one would imagine none but the Graces could enter 3 and, coupling 
this with the poetical beauties of Plato's "" Dialogues," people have 
supposed that the lessons in the Academy were magnificent outbursts 
of eloquence and imagery upon philosophical subjects. 

Nothing can be farther from the truth. The lectures were hard 
exercises of the thinking faculty, and demanded great power of con- 
tinued abstraction. Whatever graces might have adorned Plato's 
compositions, his lectures were not literary, but dialectical exercises. 
Over the door of his academy he wrote : " let none lut geometricians 
enter here,'' — a sufficiently explanatory programme of the nature of his 
lectures. — Biographical History of Philosophy, series i. vol. ii. 



258.— MAUD MULLER. 

[J. G. Whittier. 
[Mr. Whittier is an American poet of some standing; he has written " Songs of 
Labour, and other Poems," Boston, U.S., 1851 ; " Home Ballads, and other Poems," 
Boston, U.S., i860; "Poems," 8vo, Boston, 1850 ; and several other works. A 
selection from his poems is published in this country. His writings are characterized 
by grace, simplicity, and pathos.] 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day. 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 



632 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Whittier. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town. 
White from its hill-slope looking down. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest. 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dare to own. 

For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadows across the road. 

She stooped where the cool stream bubbled up^ 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanks !" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees j 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown 3 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Miiller looked and sighed : " Ah, me I 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 



Whittier.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 633 

" My father should wear a broad-cloth coat 5 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw Maud Miiller standing still. 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air. 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
And weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health and quiet and loving words.'* 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold. 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow. 
He watched a picture come and go : 

And sweet Maud Miiller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red. 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover blooms. 



634 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Whittier. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

'' Free as when I rode that day. 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.'* 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor. 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 

And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall. 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein : 

And, gazing down with timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. 
The tallow candle an astral burned. 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw. 
And joy was duty, and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, ** It might have been !" 

Alas ! for Maiden, alas ! for Judge, 
For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all. 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these : " It might have been !'* 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 



Leighton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 635 



259.— HONOUR ALL MEN. 

[Robert Leighton, Archbishop of Glasgow, 1613 — 1684. 

[Robert Leighton was born at Edinburgh 1613, and was the son of Alexander 
Leighton, a Scotch physician. Charles IL after the Restoration appointed him 
Bishop of Dumblane, but on account of the bitter animosities reigning between the 
Episcopalians and Presbyterians, he found it impossible to govern his diocese with 
the moderation he desired, and resigned his see. The king afterwards compelled 
him to accept the Archbishopric of Glasgow; but he again found himself compelled 
to resign his office, and retired to Sussex. He was an admirable parish priest, and 
his " Commentary on the First Epistle of St. Peter" is a work highly valued even 
in the present day,] 

" Honour all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honour the king." — 
I Peter ii. 17. 

This is a precious cluster of Divine precepts. The whole face of the 
heavens is adorned with stars, but they are of different magnitudes, 
and in some parts they are thicker set than in others : thus is it likewise 
in the holy scriptures. And these are the two books that the Psalmist 
sets open before us, Psa. xix., the heavens as a choice piece of the works 
of God instructing us, and the word of God more full and clear than 
they. Here is a constellation of very bright stars near together. 
These words have very briefly, and yet not obscured by briefness, but 
withal very plainly, the sum of our duty towards God and men ; to 
men both in general, " Honour all men," and in special relations — in 
their Christian or religious relation, *' Love the brotherhood," and in a 
chief civil relation, *^ Honour the king." And our whole duty to God, 
comprised under the name of " his fear," is set in the middle betwixt 
these, as the common spring of all duty to men, and of all due ob- 
servance of it, and the sovereign rule by which it is to be regulated. 

I shall speak of them as they lie in the text. We need not labour 
about the connexion ; for in such variety of brief practical directions, it 
hath not such place as in doctrinal discourses. The apostle having 
spoken of one particular wherein he would have his brethren to clear 
and commend their Christian profession, now accumulates these direc- 
tions as most necessary, and afterwards goes on to particular duties of 
servants, &c. But first, observe in general, how plain and easy, and 
how few are those things that are the rule of our life ; no dark sentences 
to puzzle the understanding, nor large discourses and long periods to 
burden the memory j they are all plain : there is '' nothing wreathed" 
nor distorted in them, as Wisdom speaks of her instructions, Prov. viii. 8. 

And this gives check to a double folly amongst men, contrary the 
one to the other, but both agreeing in mistaking and wronging the 
word of God ; the one is of those that despise the word, and that doc- 
trine and preaching that is conformable to it, for its plainness and 



636 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Uighton. 

simplicity ; the other of those that complain of its difficulty and dark- 
ness. As for the first, they certainly do not take the true end for 
which the word is designed, that it is the law of our life : and it is 
mainly requisite in laws, that they be both brief and clear: that it is 
our guide and light to happiness ; and if that which ought to be our 
*^ light, be darkness, how great will that darkness be!" 

It is true, but I am not now to insist on this point, that there are 
dark and deep passages in scripture, for the exercise, yea, for the 
humbling, yea, for the amazing and astonishing of the sharpest sighted 
readers. But this argues much the pride and vanity of men's 
minds, when they busy themselves only in those, and throw aside 
altogether the most necessary, which are therefore the easiest and 
plainest truths in it. As in nature, the commodities that are of 'greatest 
necessity, God hath made most common and easiest to be had, so, in 
religion, such instructions as these now in our hands, are given us to 
live and walk by : and in the search of things that are more obscure, 
and less useful, men evidence that they had rather be learned than holy, 
and have still more mind to the "tree of knowledge" than the " tree 
of life." And in hearing of the word, are not they who are any whit 
more knowing than ordinary, still gaping after new notions, after 
something to add to the stock of their speculative and discoursing 
knowledge, loathing this daily manna, these profitable exhortations, 
and " requiring meat for their lust ?" There is an intemperance of the 
mind, as weU as of the mouth. You would think it, and, may be, not 
spare to call it a poor cold sermon, that was made up of such plain 
precepts as these : "" Honour all men 3 love the brotherhood ; fear God ; 
honour the king:" and yet, this is the language of God, it is his way, 
this foolish, despicable way by which he guides, and brings to heaven 
them that believe. 

Again ; we have others that are still complaining of the difficulty 
and darkness of the word of God and Divine truths ; to say nothing of 
Rome's doctrine, who talks thus, in order to excuse her sacrilege of 
stealing away the word from the people of God ; (a senseless pretext 
though it were true ; because the word is dark of itself, should it 
therefore be made darker, by Jocking it up in an unknown tongue r) 
but we speak of the common \'ulgar excuse, which the gross, ignorant 
profaneness of many seeks to shroud itself under, that they are not 
learned, and cannot reach the doctrine of the scriptures. There are 
deep mysteries there indeed : but what say you to these things, such 
rules as these, " Honour all men ?" &c. Are such as these riddles, 
that you cannot know their meaning ? Rather, do not all understand 
them, and all neglect them ? Why set you not on to do these r and 
then you should understand more. "A good understanding have 



Leighton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 6s'j 

all they that do his commandments/' says the Psalmist, Psa. cxi. lo. 
As one said well, " The best way to understand the mysteries and high 
discourse in the beginning of St. Paul's epistles, is, to begin at the 
practice of those rules and precepts that are in the latter end of them." 
The way to attain to know more is to " receive the truth in the love 
of it," and to obey what you know. The truth is, such truths as these 
will leave you inexcusable, even the most ignorant of you. You cannot 
but know, you hear often, that you ought to " love one another," and 
''to fear God," &c., and yet you never apply yourselves in earnest to 
the practice of these things, as will appear to your own consciences, if 
they deal honestly with you in the particulars. 

"" Honour all men." Honour, in a narrower sense, is not a universal 
due to all, but peculiar to some kinds of persons. Of this the apostle 
speaks, "Honour to whom honour is due," Rom. xiii. 7, and that in 
different degrees, to parents, to masters, and other superiors. There is 
an honour that hath, as it were, Caesar's image and superscription on it, 
and so is particularly due to him 3 as here it follows, " Honour the 
king." But there is something that goes not unfitly under the name 
of honour, generally due to every man without exception ; and it con- 
sists, as all honour doth, partly in inward esteem of them, partly in 
outward behaviour towards them. And the former must be the ground 
and cause of the latter. 

We owe not the same measure of esteem to all. We may, yea, we 
ought to take notice of the different outward quality, or inward graces 
and gifts of men ; nor is it a fault to perceive the shallowness and 
weakness of men with whom we converse, and to esteem more highly 
those on whom God hath conferred more of such things as are truly 
worthy of esteem. But unto the meanest we do owe some measure 
of esteem, i. Negatively. We are not to entertain despising, disdainful 
thoughts of any, how worthless and mean soever. As the admiring of 
men, the very best, is a foolish excess on the one hand, so, the total 
contemning of any, the very poorest, is against this rule on the other ; 
for that '' contemning of vile persons," the Psalmist speaks of, Psa. 
XV, 4, and commends, is the dislike and hatred of their sin, which is 
their vileness, and the not accounting them for outward respects, worthy 
of such esteem as their wickedness does, as it were, strip them of. 2. 
We are to observe and respect the smallest good that is in any. 
Although a Christian be ever so base in his outward condition, in body 
or mind, of very mean intellectual and natural endowments, yet, those 
who know the worth of spiritual tilings, will esteem the grace of God 
that is in him, in the midst of all those disadvantages, as a pearl in a 
rough shell. Grace carries still its own worth, though under a de- 
formed body and ragged garments, yea, though the possessor have but 



638 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Leighton. 

a small measure of that — the very lowest degree of grace ; as a pearl 
of the least size, or a small piece of gold, yet men will not throw it 
away, but, as they say, the least shavings of gold are worth the keeping, 
The Jews would not willingly tread upon the smallest piece of paper 
in their w^ay, but took it up ! for possibly, said they, the name of God 
may be on it. Though there was a little superstition in this, yet truly 
there is nothing but good religion in it, if we apply it to men. Trample 
not on any ; there may be some work of grace there, that thou knowest 
not of. The name of God may be written upon that soul thou treadest 
on J it may be a soul that Christ thought so much of, as to give his 
precious blood for it ; therefore despise it not. Much more, I say, if 
thou canst perceive any appearance that it is such a one, oughtest thou 
to esteem it. Wheresoever thou findest the least trait of "Christ's 
image, if thou lovest him, thou wilt honour it 3 or if there be nothing 
of this to be found in him thoulookest on, yet observe what common 
gift of any kind God hath bestowed on him, judgment, or memory, or 
faculty in his calling, or any such thing ; for these in their degree are 
to be esteemed, and the person for them. And as there is no man so 
complete as to have the advantage in everything, so there is no man 
so low and unworthy but he hath something wherein he is preferable 
even to those that in other respects are much more excellent. Or 
imagine thou canst find nothing else in some men, yet honour thy 
own nature ; esteem humanity in them, especially since humanity is 
exalted in Christ to be one with the Deity : account of the individual 
as a man. And, along with this esteem goes, 3. That general good- 
will and affection due to men : whereas there are many who do not 
only outwardly express, but inwardly bear more regard to some dog 
or horse that they love, than to poor distressed men, and in so doing, 
do reflect dishonour upon themselves, and upon mankind. 

The outward behaviour wherein we owe honour to all, is nothing 
but a conformity to this inward temper of mind 3 for he that inwardly 
despiseth none, but esteemeth the good that is in the lowest, or at 
least esteemeth them in that they are men, and loves them as such, 
will accordingly use no outward sign of disdain of any 3 he will not 
have a scornful eye, nor a reproachful tongue to move at any, not the 
meanest of his servants, nor the worst of his enemies 3 but, on the 
contrary, will acknowledge the good that is in every man, and give 
unto all that outward respect which is convenient for them, and that 
they are capable of, and will be ready to do them good as he hath 
opportunity and ability. 

But instead of walking by this rule of honouring all men, what is 
there to be found amongst most men, but a perverse proneness to dis- 
honour one another, and every man ready to dishonour all men, that 



Leighton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 639 

he may honour himself, reckonuig that what he gives to others is lost 
to himself, and taking what he detracts from others, as good booty to 
make up himself? Set aside men's own interest, and that common 
civility which for their own credit they use one with another, and 
truly there will be found very little of this real respect to others, pro- 
ceeding from obedience to God, and love to men, — little disposition to 
be tender of their reputation and good name, and their welfare as of 
our own (for so the rule is), but we shall find mutual disesteem and 
defamation filling almost all societies. 

And the bitter root of this iniquity is, that wicked, accursed self- 
love which dwells in us. Every man is naturally his own grand idol, 
would be esteemed and honoured by any means, and to magnify that 
idol self, kills the good name and esteem of others in sacrifice to it. 
Hence, the narrow observing eye and broad speaking tongue, upon 
anything that tends to the dishonour of others ; and where other 
things fail, the disdainful upbraiding of their birth, or calling, or any- 
thing that comes next to hand, serves for a reproach. And hence 
arises a great part of the jars and strifes amongst men, the most part 
being drunk with an overweening opinion of themselves, and the un- 
worthiest the most so. " The sluggard," says Solomon, " is wiser in 
his own conceit, than seven men that can render a reason," Prov. 
XX vi. J 6, and not finding others of their mind, this frets and troubles 
them. They take the ready course to deceive themselves ; for they 
look with both eyes on the failings and defects of others, and scarcely 
give their good qualities half an eye j while, on the contrary, in them- 
selves, they study to the full their own advantages, and their weak- 
nesses and defects, as one says, they skip over, as children do the hard 
words in their lesson, that are troublesome to read ; and making this 
uneven parallel, what wonder if the result be a gross mistake of them- 
selves ! Men overrate themselves at home : they reckon that they 
ought to be regarded, and that their mind should carry it 5 and when 
they come abroad, and are crossed in this, this puts them out of all 
temper. 

But the humble man, as he is more conformable to this Divine rule, 
so he hath more peace by it ; for he sets so low a rate upon himself in 
his own thoughts, that it is scarcely possible for any to go lower in 
judging of him ; and therefore, as he pays due respect to others to the 
full, and gives no ground of quarrel that way, so he challenges no such 
debt to himself, and thus avoids the usual contests that arise in this. 
"Only by pride comes contention," says Solomon, Prov. xiii. 10. A 
man that will walk abroad in a crowded street, cannot fail to be 
often jostled j but he that contracts himself, passes through more 
easily. 



640 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Ritchie. 



Study, therefore, this excellent grace of humility 3 not the per- 
sonated acting of it in appearance, which may be a chief agent for 
pride, but true lowliness of mind, which will make you to be nothing 
in your own eyes, and content to be so in the eyes of others. Then 
will you obey this word ; you will esteem all men as is meet, and not 
be troubled though all men disesteem you. As this humility is a pre- 
cious grace, so it is the preserver of all other graces, and without it, if they 
could be without it, they were but as a box of precious powder carried 
in the wind without a cover, in danger of being scattered and blown 
away. If you would have honour, there is an ambition both allowed 
you, and worthy of you, whosoever you are 3 (piXorifiovfxeda, Rom. ii. 7, 
2 Cor. V. 9, other honour, though it have its Hebrew name from 
weight, is all too light, and weighs only with cares and troubles. — A 
Practical Commentary upon the First Epistle General of Saint Peter. 



imm 



260.— THE JOY OF GRIEF. 

[Leitch Ritchie, 1801 — 1865. 

[Leitch Ritchie was born at Greenock 1801. He served an apprenticeship to a 
banking-house in that town, and was afterwards engaged in a counting-house in 
Glasgow. On the failure of his employers he went to London, and adopted litera- 
ture as a profession. He wrote for magazines, annuals, and reviews; then he pub- 
lished his " Head Pieces and Tail Pieces/' " Game of Life," " Romance of French 
History," and started the " Englishman's Magazine." His health, however, failed 
him, and he was obliged to relinquish his labours for a time. Mr. Charles Heath 
then engaged him to travel, in order to illustrate " Turner's Annual Tour" and 
" Heath's Picturesque Annual." He wrote the letterpress of 12 vols, of these works, 
and afterwards brought out a " Pedestrian Tour on the Wye." He next edited the 
" Library of Romance," to which he contributed " Schinderhannes, the Robber of 
the Rhine." He edited the Era and Indian News, and finally " Chambers's Edin- 
burgh Journal," in which he issued his last fiction, " Wearyfoot Common." In 1863 
Mr. Ritchie was presented with a Civil Service pension by Lord Palmerston's 
Governm.ent. He had been compelled to resign the editorship of " Chambers' " to 
James Payn, Esq., from bad health. He survived this public recognition of his ser- 
vices only two years.] 

The " silver lining of the cloud," the close connexion between 
joy and sorrow, the tendency in the thoughtful mind to tinge with 
melancholy even the most agreeable objects, and to derive enjoy- 
ment from the remembrance of vanished happiness — all these only 
serve as the sentimental explanation of the proposition with which we 
set out, that 

"'Tis better to have loved and lost. 
Than never to have loved at all." 

And this sentimental view of the subject is probably the only one 



Ritchie.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 641 

which suggested itself to the poet. He knew by experience the 
Ossianic "joy of grief," and was aware that 

" In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind," 

it is only the more delightful features of the subject which present 
themselves, shaded and softened by time, and perhaps hallowed and 
spiritualized by death. He therefore declared, and with the air of a 
discoverer, what had already been enunciated in all ages and in all 
languages — that it is better to have lost for ever a cherished enjoy- 
ment than never to have enjoyed at all. 

But it seems to us that there is another and a larger view of the 
question, in which severe truth comes to the aid of sentiment. 

Human life, as poetry tells us, is "a mingled yarnj" and therefore 
it must take its character from the predominant colour. Yet we pity 
the man who has spent his fortune generously, and has been reduced 
to poverty in his old age ; considering his lot as far harder than that of 
him who had never any fortune to lose. Why so ? The latter has 
been in the gripe of poverty for threescore-years-and-ten — only ex- 
changing it then for the gripe of death ; while the former, after some 
sixty years of enjoyment, is suffered to escape with ten of misery. 
Surely in this instance our pity is on the wrong side. We may allege, 
in defence, that the fall would be the more distressing on account of 
the height j that the contrast between fulness and deprivation would 
add torture to the change : but this has already been shown to be an 
error. The fall would at first be severely felt, the individual would 
be stunned in proportion to the height from which he was precipitated j 
when, by and by, the consolatory principle we have alluded to would 
come into play : like Dogberry, he would begin to pride himself on 
his losses 3 and as time reconciled him to his new position, or at least 
made him more and more insensible to its hardships, the memory of 
his vanished greatness, like the mellowed illumination of the heavens 
after the sun has set, would throw an evening softness over his 
fortunes. 

But although the general balance of life is in favour of this indi- 
vidual — although the golden threads predominate in his " mingled 
yarn" — let us not suppose that the other is without his compensations. 
Existence is not wholly made up of action and suffering, but likewise 
of the emotions by which these are originated or attended. We say 
of an acquaintance, " He is a very domestic man j he lives in his 
family, and his whole mind and actions are open to them like a book." 
Yet this man, in point of fact, is almost a stranger even in his home 
circle. His brain is busy with speculations, and his heart with dreams, 
which neither wife nor child knows anything about j and in pacing 

T T 



642 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ritchie. 

through his room, filled with familiar faces and aifectionate voices, he 
is more frequently than otherwise far away in the past or in the future, 
and holding communion with the distant or the dead. In like man- 
ner, in a course of poverty and hardship, we see only external circum- 
stances, ignorant of that inner life which gives the tone and colour to 
the history. But the very act of struggling is in itself a species of 
enjoyment 3 and every hope that crosses the mind, every high resolve, 
every generous sentiment, every lofty aspiration — nay, every brave de- 
spair — is a gleam of happiness that flings its illumination upon the 
darkest destiny. All these are as essentially a portion of human life 
as the palpable events that serve as landmarks of the history ; and all 
these would have to be computed before we could fairly judge of the 
prevailing character of the career. 

An enjoyment may terminate, but it cannot be said, philosophi- 
cally, to be lost ', for it is already securely garnered in the past, and 
has impressed itself, in lines that can never be obliterated, on a certain 
portion of life. The grief we feel at its termination is another and 
wholly distinct incident, which cannot be fairly estimated otherwise 
than by a comparison with the former in point of depth, entireness, 
and duration. Thus the proposition in question — that it is better to 
have enjoyed and been bereft of the happiness than never to have 
enjoyed at all — is as true in philosophy as it is beautiful in senti- 
ment. 

A nobler and grander turn is given to the subject by some poets, 
who extend the sphere under observation from this little world to a 
limitless futurity, where those who have sown in tears will reap in joy. 
These poets are the passers-by whom we meet in our wild and tangled 
path, and who salute us with the words. What, stepping westward? as 
they point, with a strange, deep, loving, yearning smile to the luminous 
part of the heavens. Of these friendly saluters Southey comes nearest 
to the suggestion we would have extracted — had we dared adventure 
upon such a theme — from the supplemental speculation we have added 
to the poetical one j and with his lines we shall conclude : — 

" Oh, my friend. 

That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see 
Death still producing life, and evil still 
Working its own destruction; couldst behold 
The strifes and troubles of this troubled world 
"With the strong eye that sees the promised day 
Dawn through this night of tempest! All things, then, 
Woul.] minister to joy; then should thine heart 
Be healed and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel 
God always, everywhere, and all in all." 
^Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, New Series. No. 359. 



Cooper.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 643 

261;— THE INDIAN ADOPTION. 

[James Fenimore Cooper, 1789 — 1851. 

[James Fenimore Cooper was born at Burlington, New York, in 1789. He was 
the son of a judge of the State of New York. After passing through Yale College, 
he entered the American navy, in which he continued six years. He then married, 
and went to reside at Cooperstown, a village founded by his father on Lake Otsego, 
in Western New York. In 1821 he published his first novel. His stories of early 
American life on the borders and in the prairies were very successful, as were also 
some of his sea tales. " The Spy," " Last of the Mohicans," " Red Rover," &c., &c., 
were amongst the best of his numerous works of fiction. He also wrote " Lives of 
Distinguished American Naval Officers," " Sketches of Switzerland," " Gleanings in 
Europe," &c., &c. He died at Cooperstown in 1851.] 

A LOW, feeble, and hollow voice was heard rising on the ear, as if it 
rolled from the inmost cavities of the human chest, and gathered 
strength and energy as it issued into the air. A solemn stillness fol- 
lowed the sounds, and then the lips of the aged man were first seen 
to move. 

"The day of Le Balafre is near its end," were the first words that 
were distinctly audible. " He is like a bufiFalo on whom the hair will 
grow no longer. He will soon be ready to leave his lodge to go in 
search of another that is far from the villages of the Siouxesj there- 
fore what he has to say concerns not him, but those he leaves behind 
him. His words are like the fruit on the tree, ripe and fit to be given 
to chiefs. 

" Many snows have fallen since Le Balafre has been found on the 
war-path. His blood has been very hot, but it has had time to cool. 
The Wahcondah gives him dreams of war no longer 3 he sees that it 
is better to live in peace. 

" My brothers, one foot is turned to the happy hunting-grounds, the 
other will soon follow, and then an old chief will be seen looking for 
the prints of his father's moccasins, that he may make no mistake, but 
be sure to come before the Master of Life by the same path that so 
many good Indians have already travelled. But who will follow ? Le 
Balafre has no son. His oldest has ridden too many Pawnee horses j 
the bones of the youngest have been gnawed by Konza dogs. Le 
Balafre has come to look for a young arm on which he may lean, and 
to find a son, that when he is gone his lodge may not be empty. 
Tachechana, the skipping fawn of the Tetons, is too weak to prop a 
warrior who is old. She looks before her and not backwards. Her 
mind is in the lodge of her husband." 

The enunciation of the veteran warrior had been calm but distinct 
and decided. His declaration was received in silence j and though 
several of the chiefs who were in the counsels of Mahtoree turned 
their eyes on their leader, none presumed to oppose so aged and vene- 

T T 2 



644 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Cooper. 



rated a brave in a resolution that was strictly in conformity to the 
usages of the nation. The Teton himself was content to await the 
result with seeming composure, though the gleams of ferocity that 
played about his eye occasionally betrayed the nature of those feelings 
with which he witnessed a procedure that was likely to rob him of 
that one of all his intended victims whom he most hated. 

In the meantime Le Balafre moved with a slow and painful step 
towards the captives. He stopped before the person of Hard-heart, 
whose faultless form, unchanged eye, and lofty mien he contemplated 
with high satisfaction. Then making a gesture of authority, he waited 
until his order had been obeyed, and the youth was released from the 
post and his bonds by the same blow of the knife. "When the young 
warrior was led nearer to his dimmed and failing sight, the exami- 
nation was renewed with strictness of scrutiny. 

" It is good," the wary veteran murmured, when he found that all 
his skill in the requisites of a brave coidd detect no blemish ; " this is 
a leaping panther. Does my son speak with the tongue of a Teton ?" 

The intelligence which lighted the eyes of the captive betrayed how 
well he understood the question, but still he was far too haughty to 
communicate his ideas through the medium of a language that be- 
longed to a hostile people. Some of the surrounding warriors explained 
to the old chief that the captive was a Pawnee-Loup. 

" My son opened his eyes on the * waters of the wolves,' " said Le 
Balatic, in the language of that nation, '' but he will shut them in the 
bend ot the ' river with a troubled stream.' He was born a Pawnee, 
but he will die a Dahcotah. Look at me. I am a sycamore that once 
covered many with my shadow. The leaves are fallen and the branches 
begin to drop. But a single sucker is springing from my roots; it is a 
little vine, and it winds itself about a tree that is green. I have long 
looked for one tit to grow by my side. Now have I found him. Le 
Balafre is no longer without a son ; his name will not be forgotten 
when he is gone. Men of the Tetons ! I take this youth into my 
lodge." 

No one was bold enough to dispute a right that had so often been 
exercised by warriors far inferior to the present speaker, and the adop- 
tion was listened to in grave and respectful silence. Le Balafre took 
his intended son by the arm, and leading him into the very centre of 
the circle, he stepped aside with an air of triumph in order that the 
spectators might approve of his choice. Mahtoree betrayed no evidence 
of his intentions, but rather seemed to await a moment better suited to 
the crafty policy of his character. The more experienced and saga- 
cious chiefs distinctly foresaw the utter impossibility of two partisans so 
renowned, so hostile, and who had so long been rivals in fame, as their 



Cooper.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 645 

prisoner and their native leader, existing amicably in the same tribe. 
Still the character of Le Balafre was so imposing, and the custom to 
which he had resorted so sacred, that none dared to lift a voice in 
opposition to the measure. They watched the result with increasing 
interest, but with a coldness of demeanour that concealed the nature 
of their inquietude. From this state of embarrassment the tribe was 
relieved by the decision of the one most interested in the success of the 
aged chiefs designs. 

Daring the whole of the foregoing scene, it would have been diffi- 
cult to have traced a single distinct emotion in the lineaments of the 
captive. He had heard his release proclaimed, with the same indif- 
ference as the order to bind him to the stake. But now that the 
moment had arrived when it became necessary to make his election, 
he spoke in a way to prove that the fortitude which had brought him 
so distinguished a name, had in no degree deserted him. 

" My father is very old, but he has not yet looked upon everything," 
said Hard-heart, in a voice so clear as to be heard by all present. " He 
has never seen a buffalo change to a bat 3 he will never see a Pawnee 
become a Sioux!" 

There was a suddenness and yet a calmness in the manner of deli- 
vering this decision which assured most of the auditors that it was 
unalterable. The heart of Le Balafre, however, was yearning towards 
the youth, and the fondness of age was not so readily repulsed. Re- 
proving the burst of admiration and triumph to which the boldness of 
the declaration and the freshened hopes of revenge had given rise, by 
turning his gleaming eye around the band, the veteran again addressed 
his adopted child as if his purpose was not to be denied. 

'■' It is well," he said ; " such are the words a brave should use, that 
the warriors may see his heart. The day has been when the voice of 
Le Balafre was loudest among the lodges of the Konsas. But the root 
of a white hair is wisdom. My child will show the Tetons that he is 
brave, by striking their enemies. Men of the Dahcotahs, this is my 
son !" 

The Pawnee hesitated a moment, and then stepping in front of the 
chief, he took his hard and wrinkled hand and laid it with reverence 
on his head, as if to acknowledge the extent of his obligation. Then 
recoiling a step, he raised his person to its greatest elevation, and looked 
upon the hostile band by whom he was environed with an air of lofti- 
ness and disdain, as he spoke aloud in the language of the Siouxes — 

"Hard-heart has looked at himself within and without. He has 
thought of all he has done in the hunts and in. the wars. Everywhere 
he is the same. There is no change j he is in all things a Pawnee. 
He has struck so many Tetons that he could never eat in their lodges. 



646 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ranke. 

His arrows would fly backwards ; the point of his lance would be on 
the wrong end ; their friends would weep at every whoop he gave -, 
their enemies would laugh. Do the Tetons know a Loup ? Let them 
look at him again. His head is painted^ his arm is flesh, his heart is 
rock. When the Tetons see the sun come from the Rocky Mountains 
and move towards the land of the Pale-faces, the mind of Hard-heart 
will soften and his spirit will become Sioux. Until that day he will 
live and die a Pawnee." 

A yell of delight, in which admiration and ferocity were strangely 
mingled, interrupted the speaker, and but too clearly announced the 
character of his fate. The captive waited a moment for the commo- 
tion to subside, and then turning again to Le Balafre, he continued in 
tones conciliating and kind, as if he felt the propriety of softening his 
refusal in a manner not to wound the pride of one willing to be his 
benefactor. 

" Let my father lean heavier on the fawn of the Dahcotahs," he said 5 
*' she is weak now, but as her lodge fills with young she will be stronger. 
See," he added, directing the eyes of the other to the earnest counte- 
nance of the attentive trapper ; ^' Hard-heart is not without a grey- 
head to show him the path to the blessed prairies. If he ever has 
another father, it shall be that just warrior." 

Le Balafre turned away in disappointment from the youth, and 
approached the stranger who had thus anticipated his design. — The 
Prairie, chap, xxviii. 



262.— KARA GEORGE. 

[Leopold Ranke, 1795. 

[Leopold Ranke, Professor of History in the University of Berlin, was born at Wiehe, 
in Tliuringia, in 1795. He was appointed Head Master of the Gymnasium at 
Frankfort on the Oder in 1818. In 1824 he published his first works — " The History 
of the Roman and Germanic Peoples from 1494 to 1535," and "A Critique on the 
Later Historians." He gained so much reputation for these works that he was 
invited to Berlin the following year as Professor-Extraordinary of History in the 
University. Soon afterwards he was sent by the Prussian Government to examine 
the historical archives deposited at Vienna, Venice, and Rome. This task he per- 
formed admirably, and its fruits were offered to the public in " Princes and People 
of Southern Europe in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries" (1827), and " The 
Conspiracy against Venice in 1688" (1831). His next work was " The History of 
the Popes" (by which he is best known in England). During 1839-1843 he published 
his " German History in the Times of the Reformation." In 1841 he was appointed 
(as he well deserved to be) Historiographer of the Prussian State. In 1832 Ranke 
edited the " Historical and Political Gazette," but was obliged to discontinue it on 
account of its too liberal character. In 1837-40 he published "Annals of the Ger- 
man Monarchy under the House of Saxony;" "Nine Books of Prussian History;" 
"A History of Serviu, with a Sketch of the Insurrection in Bosnia;" "Civil Wars 



Ranke.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 647 

and Monarchy in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries : a History of France, 
principally during that period;" "Ferdinand I. and Maximilian II. of Austria:" and 
an " Essay on the Political and Religious State of Germany after the Reformation." 
Mrs. Austin, Mr. Scott, and Mrs. Kerr have very admirably translated Ranke's chief 
works into English.] 

Kara George will be ever memorable, not only as having Jed the 
insurrection of the Servians against the Turks, but also as the founder 
of a comprehensive national authority throughout the country. He well 
deserved to be regarded as the chief of the nation. 

George Petrowitsch, called Kara or Zrni, the Black, was born 
between the years 1760 and 1770, in the village of Wischewzi, in 
the district of Kragujewaz. He was the son of a peasant named 
Petroni -, and in his early youth he went with his parents higher up 
into the mountain to Topola. In the very first commotion of the 
country* — which was in the year 1787, when an invasion by the 
Austrians was expected — he took a part that decided the character of 
his future life. He saw himself compelled to flee ; and not wishing to 
leave his father behind amongst the Turks, he took him also, with all 
his moveable property and cattle. Thus he proceeded towards the 
Save, but the nearer they approached the river, the more alarmed be- 
came his father, who from the first would have preferred surrendering, 
as many others had done, and often advised him to return. Once 
again, and in the most urgent manner, when they already beheld the Save 
before them, '' Let us humble ourselves," the old man said, " and we 
shall obtain pardon. Do not go to Germany, my son 5 as surely as my 
bread may prosper thee, do not go." But George remained inexorable. 
His father was at last equally resolved. *' Go thou over alone," he 
said, '' I remain in this country." " How," replied Kara George, 
" shall I live to see thee slowly tortured to death by the Turks ? It is 
better that I should kill thee myself on the spot !" Then seizing a 
pistol he instantly shot his father, and ordered one of his companions 
to give the death-blow to the old man, who was writhing in agony. 
In the next village Kara said to the people, ''Get the old man who 
lies yonder buried for me, and drink also for his soul at a funeral feast." 
For that purpose he made them a present of the cattle he had with 
him, and then crossed the Save. 

This deed, which was the first indication of his character, threw him 
out of the common course. 

Kara George was a very extraordinary man. He would sit for days 
together without uttering a word, biting his nails. At times when 

* Servia, 



648 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Ranke. 

addressed he would turn his head aside and not answer. When he 
had taken wine, and if in a cheerful mood, he would perhaps lead off 
a Kolo dance. Splendour and magnificence he despised. In the days 
of his greatest success he was always seen in his old trousers, in his 
worn-out short felt, and his well known black cap. His daughter, even 
whilst her father was in the exercise of princely authority, was seen 
carrying her water-vessel like other girls in the village. Yet, strange 
to say, he was not insensible to the charms of gold. 

In Topola he might have been taken for a peasant. With his 
Momkes* he would clear a piece of forest land or conduct water to a 
mill, and they would fish together in the brook Jasenitza. He ploughed 
and tilled the ground, and spoiled the insignia of the Russian order 
with which he had been decorated, whilst putting a hoop on a cask. 
It was in battle only that he appearel a warrior. When the Sefv^ians 
saw him approach, surrounded by his Momkes, they took fresh courage. 
Of lofty stature, spare, and broad-shouldered, his face seamed by a large 
scar and enlivened with sparkling, deep-set eyes, he could not fail to be 
instantly recognised. He would spring from his horse — for he pre- 
ferred fighting on foot — and though his right hand had been disabled 
from a wound received when a Heyduc,t lie contrived to use his rifle 
most skilfully. Wherever he appeared the Turks became panic- 
stricken ; for victory was believed to be invariably his companion. 

In the affairs of peace Kara George evinced a decided inclination for 
a regular course of proceeding ; and although he could not himself 
write, he was fond of having business carried on in writing. He 
allowed matters to follow their own course for a long time together j 
but if they were carried too far, his very justice was violent and terrible. 
His only brother, presuming on his name and relationship, took un- 
warrantable licence, and for a long time Kara George overlooked his 
misconduct J but at length he did violence to a young maiden, whose 
friends complained loudly, exclaiming, that it was for crimes of such a 
nature that the nation had risen against the Turks. Kara George was 
so greatly enraged at this vile deed, that he ordered this only brother, 
whom he loved, to be hanged at the door of the house, and forbade 
his mother to mourn outwardly for the death of her son. 

Generally speaking he was kindly disposed, yet he would readily 
accredit what was related to him in prejudice of another, although a 



* Cavalry troops. The Momkes were people settled on the land, and descended 
from good families. They ate with their leader, and were provided by him with horses 
and handsome ap))arel. Though not paid, they received valuable presents and shared 
his booty. For this they were bound to their chief in life and in death, and they 
always formed his suite. 

t Bandit 



Latham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 649 

short time before convinced of the contrary -, and if once irritated and 
angry he could not be restrained. He would not even pause to tell 
his Momkes to beat the offender to the ground, but he would himself 
slay his adversary — and he spared none. To the Knes Theodosi he 
was indebted for his dignity, yet him he slew. When such an event 
occurred he wou'd weep and exclaim, ** May God punish him who 
gave cause for this quarrel I" Yet he was not vindictive. When he had 
once pardoned an offender he never recurred again to the offence. 

Such was Kara George 5 a character of extraordinary strength, un- 
conscious, as it were, of its own powers, brooding in the vague sense of 
dormant energies, till roused to action by some event of moment ; but 
then bursting forth into vigorous activity, for good or for evil, as cir- 
cumstances might direct. 

His character much resembles that of the heroes celebrated in the 
national songs of Servia. — History of Servia. Chap. x. Translated 
by Mrs. Alexander Kekr. 



263.— UNIVERSALITY OF MAN. 

[Dr. Latham, M.D., 1812. 

[Robert Gordon Latham was born in Lincolnshire in 1812. He was educated as 
a Colleger at Eton, and went to King's College, Cambridge, as a scholar, where he 
graduated B.A. in 1835. He is an eminent physician, and known in the literary 
world by his works on Ethnology. The chief of these are " Varieties of Mankind," 
" Ethnology of Europe," " Man and his Migrations," " History of the English 

- Language," "Descriptive Ethnology," "Travels in Scandinavia," &c. &c.] 

The next instrument of ethnological criticism is to be found in the 
phenomena themselves of the dispersion and distribution of our 
species. 

First as to its universality. In this respect we must look minutely 
before we shall find places where man is not. These, if we find them 
at all, will come under one of two conditions j the climate will be 
extreme, or the isolation excessive. For instances of the first we take 
the Poles ; and as far as the Antarctic Circle is concerned, we find no 
inhabitants in the ice-bound regions — few and far between — of its 
neighbourhood ; none south of ^^° S. lat., or the extremity of the 
Tierra del Fuego. This, however, is peopled. We must remember, 
however, that in the Southern Ocean such regions as New South 
Shetland and Victoria Land are isolated as well as cold and frozen. 

The North Pole, however, must be approached within 25° before 
we lose sight of Man, or find him excluded from even a permanent 
habitation. Spitzbergen is beyond the limits of human occupancy. 
Nova Zerabla, when first discovered, was also uninhabited. So was 



I 



C50 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Latham. 

Iceland. Here, however, it was the isolation of the island that 
made it so. A hardy stock of men, nearly related to ourselves, have 
occupied it since the ninth century ; and continental Greenland is 
peopled as far as the 75th degree — though, perhaps, only as a summer 
residence. 

Far to the east of Nova Zembla and opposite to the country of the 
Yukahiri — a hardy people on the rivers Kolyma and Indijirka, and 
within the Arctic Circle — lies the island of New Siberia. I find from 
Wrangell's " Travels in Siberia" that certain expatriated Yukahiri are 
believed to have fled thither. Have they lived or died ? Have they 
reached the island ? In case they have done so, and kept body and 
soul together. New Siberia is probably the most northern spot of the 
inhabited world. 

How cold a country must be in order to remain empty of men, we 
have seen. Such localities are but few. None are too hot — unless, 
indeed, we believe the centre of Equatorial Africa to be a solitude. 

In South America there is a great blank in the maps. For many 
degrees on each side of the Upper Amazons lies a vast tract — said to 
be a jungle — and marked Sirionos, the name of a frontier population. 
Yet the Sirionos are not for one moment supposed to fill up the vast 
hiatus. At the same time there are few, or none, besides. Is this 
tract a drear unhumanized waste ? It is said to be so — to be wet, 
woody, and oppressively malarious. Yet this merely means that there 
is a forest and a swamp of a certain magnitude, and of a certain 
degree of impenetrability. 

Other such areas are unexplored — yet we presume them to be 
occupied ; though ever so thinly : e.g., the interiors of New Guinea 
and Australia. 

That Greenland was known to the early Icelanders is well known. 
And that it was occupied when so first known is also certain. One 
of the geographical localities mentioned in an old Saga has an Eskimo 
word for one of its elements — Utihuks-Jirth^=the Jirth of the isthmus; 
Utibuk in Eskimo meaning isthmus. 

Of the islands originally uninhabited those which are, at one and 
the same time, large and near continents, are Madeira and Iceland — 
the former being a lonely wood. The Canaries, though smaller and 
more isolated, have been occupied by the remarkable family of the 
Guanches. Add to these. Ascension, St. Helena, the Galapagos, 
Kerguelen's Island, and a few others. 

Easter Island, a speck in the vast Pacific, and more than half way 
between Asia and America, exhibited both inhabitants and ruins to its 
first discoverers. 

Such is the horizontal distribution of Man; i,e., his distribution 



.Latham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 65! 

according to the degrees of latitude. What other animal has such a 
range ? What species ? What genus or order ? Contrast with this 
the localized habitats of the Orang-utan, and the Chimpanzee as 
species ; of the Apes as genera ; of the Marsupialia as orders. 

The vertical distribution is as wide. By vertical I mean elevation 
above the level of the sea. On the high table-land of Pamer we 
have the Kerghizj summer visitants at least, where the Yak alone, 
among domesticated animals, lives and breathes in the rarefied atmo- 
sphere. The town of Quito is more than 10,000 feet above the seaj 
Walcheren is perhaps below the level of it. 

Who expects uniformity of physiognomy or frame with such a dis- 
tribution ? 

The size of ethnological areas. — Comparatively speaking, Europe is 
pretty equally divided amongst the European families. The Slavonic 
populations of Bohemia, Silesia, Poland, Servia, and Russia may, 
perhaps, have more than their due — still the French, Italians, Spaniards, 
Portuguese, and Wallachians, all speaking languages of classical origin, 
have their share ; and so has our own Germanic or Gothic family of 
English, Dutch, Frisians, Bavarians, and Scandinavians. Neverthe- 
less, there are a few families as limited in geographical area as subordi- 
nate in political importance. There are the Escaldunac, or Basques, 
— originally the occupants of all Spain and half France, now pent up 
in a corner of the Pyrenees — the Welsh of the Iberic Peninsula. 
There are also, the Skipetar, or Albanians j wedged in between 
Greece, Turkey, and Dalmatia. Nevertheless, the respective areas 
of the European families are pretty equally distributed j and the land 
of Europe is like a lottery wherein ail the prizes are of an appreciable 
value. 

The comparison with Asia verifies this. In immediate contact 
with the vast Turkish population centred in Independent Tartary, 
but spread over an area reaching more or less continuously from 
Africa to the Icy Sea (an area larger than the whole of Europe), come 
the tribes of Caucasus — Georgians, Circassians, Lesgians, Mizjeji, and 
Iron J five well-defined groups, each falling into subordinate divisions, 
and some of them into subdivisions. The language of Constanti- 
nople is understood at the Lena. In the mountain range between the 
Caspian and the Black Sea, the mutually unintelligible languages are 
at least fifteen — perhaps more, certainly not fewer. Now, the extent 
of land covered by the Turk family shows the size to which an ethno- 
logical area may attain j whilst the multiplicity of mutually unintelli- 
gible tongues of Caucasus shows how closely families may be 
packed. Their geographical juxtaposition gives prominence to tlie 
contrast. 



652 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Berington, 



At the first view this contrast seems remarkable. So far from 
being so, it is of continual occurrence. In China the langi^age is 
one and iiid visible : on its south-western frontier the tongues are 
counted by the dozen — just as if in Yorkshire there were but one 
provincial dialect throughout 3 two in Lincolnshire j and twenty in 
Rutland. 

The same contrast reappears in North America. In Canada and 
the Northern States the Algonkin area is measured by the degrees of 
latitude and longitude; in Louisiana and Alabama by the mile. 

The same in South America. One tongue — the Guarani — covers 
half the continent. Elsewhere a tenth part of it contains a score. 

The same in Southern Africa. From the Line to the neighbour- 
hood of the Cape all is Kaffre. Between the Gambia and the Gaboon 
there are more than twenty different divisions. 

The same in the North. The Berbers reach from the Valley of 
the Nile to the Canaries, and from the Mediterranean to the parts about 
Borneo. In Borneo there are said to be thirty different languages. 

Such are areas in size, and in relation to each other ; like the 
bishoprics and curacies of our church, large and small, with a diffi- 
culty in ascertaining the average. However, the simple epithets ^rea^ 
and smalL are suggestiv^e ; since the former implies an encroaching, the 
latter a receding population. — Man and his Migrations, chap, iii. 



264.— ROGER BACON. 

[The Rev. Joseph Bertngton, 1743 — 1827. 
[The Rev. Joseph Berington was born in Shropshire in 1743, and was educated 
at St. Omer. After passing through the course of study pursued there with great 
distinction, he took orders in the Roman Catholic church, and exercised the functions 
of the priesthood for some years in France. He appeared as an author in 1776, 
publishmg a Letter on MateriaHsm, and on Hartley's "'theory of the Human Mind.'* 
Mr. Berington WcS remarkable for the moderation of his views and for his learning. 
He published in 1790, in quarto, a " History of Henry II. and his Two Sons;" in 
1793 " Memoirs of Gregorio Panizzi." His " Literary History of the Middle Ages" 
was published in 18 14. In the same year Mr. Berington settled at Buckland in 
Beikshire, where he died in 1827. An edition of the " Literary History" by Hazlitt 
was issued by Bogue in 1846.] 

I COULD pursue with pleasure the long list of able men who, from 
this and other countries, continued in an uninterrupted succession to 
profess the scholastic art. I might mention John Wallis, a Franciscan, 
who, having studied at Oxford, taught in Paris, where he acquired the 
name of the Tree of Life, and of whose talents and erudition Leland 
speaks with his usual exaggeration. To him I might add John Peck- 
ham, of the same order, who studied in Oxford and in Paris, in both 



Berington.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 653 

which cities he lectured, and afterwards went to Lyons and to Rome, 
where he acquired great distinction by his legal knowledge, and where 
he was raised to the vacant see of Canterbury. I could mention John 
of Paris, a native of that city, and Richard Middleton, the first a Do- 
minican, the second a Franciscan 3 and Giles de Colonna, an illustrious 
Roman of the order of St. Austin, v/ho studied and taught in Paris and 
other cities, and who passed his life in many honourable and learned 
toils. These and many others, some secular ecclesiastics, but far the 
greatest part members of the new religious orders, were constantly 
employed as I have represented them in diffusing science, such as it 
was, and fomenting the literary ardour* of the times. 

But there is one man who must not be thus transiently noticed — I 
mean Roger Bacon, born early in the century. After finishing the 
elementary studies of grammar at Oxford, he devoted his whole atten- 
tion to philosophy, the recesses of which he inv^estigated with a sagacity 
which was hitherto unexampled. Having his mind thus richly stored, 
he repaired to Paris in the company of many other youths. Paris, 
observes the historian,t was now much frequented by the English, and 
particularly by the Oxonians. Here Bacon found a copious variety of 
intellectual nutriment. He sedulously applied himself to languages, 
to history, to jurisprudence, to the mathematics, and to medicine 3 and 
closing the wide circle by theology, he was appointed to a public chair, 
and received academical honours. His own country was now to be 
benefited by his learning. He returned to Oxford, and, by the per- 
suasion it is said of Grosteste (if not earlier), the Iriend and patron of 
the order, entered among the Franciscans. He prosecuted his former 
studies in Xhe retirement of a cell ; took a more accurate survey of 
nature and her laws 5 methodized the sciences, and particularly the 
philosophy which he had deeply imbibed ; and by the help of languages, 
especially that of Greece, accumulating observations which the common 
herd of scholars found it impossible to obtain, opened a way to new 
inquiries. A mind like his could observe, could investigate, and could 
invent, but it was not possible to advance without instruments. He is 
said himsell" to have constructed instruments, to have engaged the in- 
genuity of others, and to have expended a large sum in the purchase 
of books and the prosecution of experiments. From the titles of his 
works it appears that perspective, astronomy, optics, geometry, the 
mechanic arts, chemistry, and alchemy, were amongst his favourite 
pursuits. He delivered lectures upon these and other subjects. 



* See Le'.and de Scrip. Brit., Cave, Hist. Lit., also Hist. Univer, Oxon. passim, and 
Bib. Lat. med. getat. 

t Hist. Univers. Oxon. sub an. 1292. 



654 THE ErSRY-DJY BOOK [Berington. 

Leland, in his usual style, wishes for a hundred tongues and a 
hundred mouths, that he might be able to celebrate the wonderful dis- 
coveries of Bacon as they deserved. His contemporaries were less 
adulatory. Many wondered, but in their stupid admiration they 
ascribed his inventions to the black art. In his knowledge of the 
Hebrew and the Greek languages they saw nothing but a medium of 
holding a secret intercourse with the devil, and the same suspicion was 
confirmed by the lines of circles and triangles. Nor were these the 
surmises only of the vulgar j men even of some education entertained the 
same ; the brethren of his order refused to admit his works into their 
libraries, and are said to have procured his incarceration. 

In the progress of man towards improvement there are certain stages, 
which, if too rapidly passed, appear to retard rather than accelerate his 
advancement. The discoveries of Roger Bacon were productive of 
little benefit to the thirteenth century. His contemporaries could not 
appreciate their value, and ascribing them to necromancy or supernatural 
agency, they added new strength to former prejudices, and increased 
the obstinacy of ignorance. On his side, the philosopher despised the 
boasted learning of the schools, not considering that this very learning, 
by giving exercise to general talents, was perhaps best adapted to pre- 
pare the mind for that degree of light which was tardily but gradually 
dawning around it. Speaking of his own times, he says: " Never was 
there such a show of wisdom, such exercises in all branches and in all 
kingdoms, as within these forty years. Teachers are everywhere dis- 
persed in cities, in castles, and in villages, taken particularly from the 
new monastic orders. Yet never was there more ignorance, more 
error. The common herd of students, poring over their wretched 
versions (of the works of Aristotle) lose their time, their application, 
and their money. Yet if the senseless multitude applaud, they are 
satisfied." He elsewhere says of those versions, that if he had them in 
his power they should be committed to the flames, as serving only to 
perpetuate error and multiply ignorance. 

The opinion of his own talents and acquirements was widely different. 
In his Opus Majus, addressed to Clement IV., speaking of himself he 
says, that from the time he had learned his alphabet he had spent forty 
years in the study of the sciences and languages, but that now, in the 
half of one year at most, he would undertake to communicate all his 
knowledge to any diligent man possessed of a sufficient capacity of 
retention, under certain easy conditions, which he mentions. He 
doubts not but that within three days he can put it into the power of 
such a man to learn the Hebrew tongue in such a manner as accurately 
to understand what may be necessary for the elucidation of the Scrip- 
tures. He will infuse the Greek language in the same space of time. 



Knowles.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 655 

SO that whatever has been written concerning theology and philosophy 
shall be clearly comprehended ; and as to geometry, it shall be fully 
developed in one week, and arithmetic in a second. What opinion 
must we form of the extent of the knowledge which could be com- 
municated with this singular rapidity, or ought we to lament that 
Friar Bacon has not left behind him an art of teaching so inestimably 
valuable? He died about the year 1284, and was buried in the 
Franciscan convent at Oxford.* — Literary History of the Middle Ages. 
Book V. 



265.— TELL'S SPEECH. 

[James Sheridan Knowles, 1794 — 1862. 
[James Sheridan Knowles was born at Cork in 1794. He was for some time a 
strolling actor, the elder Kean forming part of the company in which he performed. 
Knowles found his way to London, and in 18 15 " Caius Gracchus" was performed, 
followed by '* Virginius," which had a long run, and the fame of the dramatist was 
secured. "The Wife," "The Hunchback," "William Tell," and "The Love 
Chase," confirmed his success. Mr, Knowles frequently played the heroes of his 
own dramas ; but his strong Hibernian accent, which never left him, was a great 
drawback to him on the stage. Some years before he died he was offered a pension 
from the Civil List of lOoZ. a year, which he refused, asserting that he was " not a 
hungry dog craving for a bone," In this refusal he asserted the dignity of his pro- 
fession ; and on a subsequent appeal, through the efforts of the Dramatic Authors' 
Society, a pension of 200Z. per annum was awarded him. He shortly after retired 
from the stage and became a Baptist preacher, but he did not relinquish his pension, 
which he enjoyed to the time of his decease, in 1862.] 

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again ! 

I hold to you the hands you first beheld. 

To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 

A spirit in your echoes answer me. 

And bid your tenant welcome to his home 

Again ! — O sacred forms, how proud you look ! 

How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 

How huge you are ! how mighty and how free ! 

Ye are the things that tower, that shine — whose smile 

Makes glad — whose frown is terrible — whose forms. 

Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 

Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, 

I'm with you once again ! — I call to you 

With all my voice ! — I hold my hands to you 

To show they still are free. I rush to you 

As though I could embrace you ! 

Scaling yonder peak, 

* See more on this extraordinary man in the Hist. Univers. Oxon. — See also Leland, 
Cave, &c. His Opus Majus was published in 1733. 



656 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Knowles. 

I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow 

O'er the abyss : his broad expanded wings 

Lay calm and motionless upon the air. 

As if he floated there without their aid, 

By the sole act of his unlorded will. 

That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively 

I bent my bow j yet kept he rounding still 

His airy circle, as in the delight 

Of measuring the ample range beneath. 

And round about absorbed, he heeded not 

The death that threaten'd him. — I could not shoot !^ 

'Twas hberty! — I turned my bow aside. 

And let him soar away ! - 

Heavens, with what pride I used 
To walk these hills, and look up to my God, 
And bless him that it was so ! It was free ! 
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free-^ 
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks. 
And plough our valleys, without asking leave 3 
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow. 
In very presence of the regal sun. 
How happy was it then ! I loved 
Its very storms. Yes, Emma, I have sat 
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake. 
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge 
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed 
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled 
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head. 
And think I had no master save his own. 
You know the jutting cliff round which a track 
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow 
To such another one, with scanty room 
For two abreast to pass? O'ertaken there 
By the mountain blast, Ive laid me flat along. 
And while gust followed gust more furiously. 
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink. 
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms 
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just 
Flave wished me there — the thought that mine was free 
Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head, 
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind. 
Blow on ! This is the land of liberty ! 

— JVUUamTell 



Goulburn.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 657 

266.— PERSONAL RELIGION BOTH ACTIVE AND CONTEMPLATIVE. 

[The Very Rev. Edward Meyrick Goulburn, D.D., Dean of Norwich, 1818. 

[Edward Meyrick Goulburn, Dean of Norwich, is the son of Edward Goul- 
burn, Esq., Sergeant-at-Law, and was born 1818. He was educated at Eton, and 
elected a scholar of Baliol College, Oxford, in 1835, where he graduated B.A. in 1839, 
taking first-class honours in the school of Liter ce Humaniores. In 1841 he was 
elected Fellow of Merton College. In 1850, while he was a College tutor and in- 
cumbent of Holywell, Oxford, he was elected as successor of Dr. Tait, the present 
Archbishop of Canterbury, in the head-mastership of Rugby School. This post he 
held till 1858, when he retired from it. He preached the Barapton Lectures at 
Oxford, 1850, and was appointed minister of Quebec Chapel and Prebendary of St. 
Paul's, 1858; one of the Queen's chaplains in ordinary in 1859, and in the same year. 
Incumbent of St. John's, Paddington. He became Dean of Norwich in 1866.] 

Reader, there is a deep-seated necessity for work in the constitution 
of our nature. In the absence of regular and active occupation, the 
mind is apt to grow morbid^ stagnant^ and, what is worse than either, 
selfish. One of the greatest thinkers of antiquity defined happiness to 
be '^' an energy of the soul." And is it not true? Only watch the 
avidity with which men, even in extreme old age, when one would 
think that the interests of this life were on the wane for them, catch 
at some exciting pursuit, like politics. The lesson which as Christians 
we should draw from this observation is, that most unquestionably God 
has made man for activity as well as for contemplation. The reason 
why the activity fails in numberless instances to secure happiness, is 
that it is separated from God — that it is not in His service and in- 
terests. This being the case it too often engrosses, hampers, entangles, 
impedes, — is as a dead weight to the soul, instead of, as it might be, a 
wing, and a means of furtherance. 

Let every one therefore who studies Personal Religion seriously con- 
sider, first, in what quarter lies the work which God has given him to 
do ; and next, how he may execute that work in a happy and a holy 
frame of mind. I need not say that the services on which God con- 
descends to employ men are almost infinitely various. Each one of 
us has a stewardship somewhere in the great social system, and some 
gift qualifying him for itj and if he will but consult faithfully the 
intimations of God's providence, he will not be long before he disco- 
vers what it is. It may be that we are called to very humble duties — 
duties ver)' low down in the social scale ; still even they are held from 
God, and constitute a stewardship 3 and the one talent which qualifies 
us for them will have to be accounted for as much as if it were ten 
talents. To regard the business attaching to any station of life as in- 
significant, is as unreasonable as it is unscriptural. St. Paul says of the 
human body, that God has *' given honour to those members which 

u u 



658 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Goulburn. 

lacked." The same may be said of society: its whole fabric and 
framework is built up of humble duties accurately fulfilled by persons 
in humble stations. What would become of society, and how could 
its well-being and progress be secured if all the subordinates in every 
department of life, all those who have to play the more mechanical 
parts, were to throw up their callings on the excuse that they were not 
sufficiently dignified ? How would it fare with the plans of the 
architect, if the builders and masons throughout the country were to 
suspend their labours. But we need not reason on the subject where 
the Word of God has spoken so explicitly. The Scripture, with that 
wonderful penetration into the heart of man which characterizes its 
every page, has taken care to set the seal of dignity and sacredness 
upon those callings and employments which are lowest in the social 
scale. Our blessed Lord, when learning of the doctors in the 
Temple, and through their instruction growing in wisdom, teaches 
us that to be engaged thus in childhood is to be about our Father's 
business. 

We naturally look down on a child learning a lesson, and think that 
it is no great matter whether the lesson be learned or not. Christ 
opens a widely different view of the subject, when he connects a 
child's growth in wisdom with its relations to God : " Wist ye not that 
I must be in the things of my Father?" ih tois tov Trarpos fjiov.) 

But still more remarkable, perhaps, in its bearing on our present 
subject, is the treatment of the duties of servants in the New Testa- 
ment. These servants were slaves, and mostly slaves to heathen 
masters. If ever duty took a degrading form, it must have done so 
frequently in their case. If ever of any calling one might say, *' There 
is no divine stewardship in it," this might have been said surely of 
slavery among the heathens. Yet it is recognised in the strongest way, 
that even the slave's duties may be sanctified by importing into them a 
Christian motive^ and that when such a motive is imported into them, 
the service is really done not to the human master, but (marvellous 
condescension !) to the great Head of the Church Himself. ** Servants, 
obey in all things your masters according to the flesh : not with eye 
service as men pleasers, but in singleness of heart, fearing God : and 
whatsoever ye do, do it heartily as to the Lord, and not unto men j 
knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheri- 
tance, for yc serve the Lord Christ. '' No less truly, then, than 
quaintly did good George Herbert sing : — 

"All may of Thee partake: 
Nothing can be so mean, 
Which with this tincture (for Thy sake). 
Will not grow bright and clean. 



Goulburn.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 65^ 

** A servant with this clause 
Makes drudgery divine. 
Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws. 
Makes that and the action fine." 

Now if both a child's education and a slave's drudgery find their 
place in the vast system of God's service, vt^hat lavt^ful calling can we 
suppose to be excluded from a place in that system ? 

But we remark, secondly, that there is a contemplative element in 
the service of the Seraphim,* that their activity is fed from the springs 
of their devotion. There are two chief passages of Holy Scripture (one 
in the Old and one in the New Testament) in which we obtain a 
glimpse of angels engaged in worship 3 one is that before us, in which 
the prophet sees the Seraphim, with veiled faces and feet, crying one 
to another before the throne, " Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of Hosts ; 
the whole earth is full of His glory." This was a heavenly scene 3 it 
was enacted in the Temple which represented Heaven. Bnt in the 
New Testament we find the Seraphim domesticating themselves upon 
earth, in the outlying field of a village where cattle were penned. 
When the Lord of heaven, laying aside the robe of light and the 
tiara of the rainbow, appeared among us in the form of an infant 
cradled in a manger. He drew an escort of the Seraphim after Him : 
" And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly 
host praising God, and saying. Glory to God in the highest, and on 
earth peace, and goodwill to men." 

The ministry of the angels is then only half their life. The other 
half, which indeed makes their ministry glow with zeal, is their wor- 
ship. And so it must be with God's human servants. 

The activity which flows from ambition, the diligence which is 
purely mechanical and the result of habit, is not angelic diligence and 
activity. To attempt to lead the spiritual life without devotion, is even 
a greater mistake than to go apart from our duties in order to lead it. 
Our flying on God's errands will be an unhallowed flight, if we do not 
first secretly adore Him in oar hearts. A prayerless day of hard work, 
consecrated by no holy meditation, oh ! what a dull, plodding, tramp- 
ing day it is ! How do we spend money in such a day for that which 
is not bread, and our labour for that which satisfieth not ? How does 
God in such a day deal with us, as with the Egyptians of old, taking 
off" the chariot-wheels from our work, so that we drive it heavily ^ 
How if we turn our mind to better things in the stillness of the night, 
does the Lord seem to stand over the bed, and reprove all that godless 



* These remarks are founded on a passage of Holy Scripture, which represents the 
employments of angels. 

U U 2 



66o 



THE E VERY-BAY BOOK 



[Sismondi. 



toil and turmoil^ which in a spiritual point of view has ran to waste, 
with this loving irony : " It is but lost labour that ye haste to rise up 
early, and so late take rest, and eat the bread of carefulness j for so He 
giveth his beloved sleep !" And in these times, in this country, 
the danger of the vast majority of men — ^your danger, perchance, 
reader — lies in this direction. Activity is now, if it ever was, 
the order of the day with all classes. Competition and the cry 
for qualified persons in every department of industry, are driving all 
drones out of the social hive. No one has a moment to spare. The 
strain and stress of occupation frequently proves too great for feeble 
bodies and sensitive minds. And with those who are physically 
and intellectually equal to cope with the pressure of multiplied 
and urgent business, the mind too often burrows and is buried in its 
M'ork, and scarcely ever comes to sun itself in the light of Heaven. 
With a fatal facility we dispense ourselves from prayer and meditation 
and self-examination on the ground of fatigue, or pressing avocations, 
or necessity of refreshment. Yet secret devotion is the source, not of 
strength only, but of comfort and even of success in any high accep- 
tation of the word. 

Success is no success if it makes not a happy mindj and the mind 
which is not holy cannot be happy. A good author, writing before 
the invention of the compass, says : ** Even when your affairs be of 
such importance as to require your whole attention, you should look 
mentally towards God from time to time, as mariners do who, to 
arrive at the port for which they are bound, look more up towards 
Heaven than down on the sea on which they sail ; thus will God work 
with you, in you, and for you, and all your labour shall be accom- 
panied with consolation." — Thoughts on Personal Religion, part i. 
chap. iv. 



267.— THE IMPROVVISATORE. 

[J. C. L. SiMONDE DE Sismondi, 1773 — 1842. 

[John Charles Leonard Simonde de Sismondi was born at Geneva, 1773. Hewas 
descended from an ancient Tuscan family which settled in France, but after the re- 
vocation of the Edict of Nantes, fled to Geneva, where the historian and critic received 
his education. The French Revolution swept away a great part of the family pro- 
perty, and Sismondi was obliged to enter a banking-house at Lyons. In 1793 he 
accompanied his family to England, and there studied our language and constitution. 
In 1795 he settled in Italy as a farmer, and wrote during his leisure, "Researches 
into the Constitution of Free Peoples." His first published work was a " Picture 
of Tuscan Agriculture," which was printed at Geneva in 1801. In 1805 he travelled 
through Italy with Madame de Stael. In 1807 he published his "Italian Republics." 
His greatest work, " Histoire des Fran9ais," was begun in 1819, and continued till 
the end of his life; but he published in the meantime some very valuable works: 



Sismondi.j OF MODERN LITERATURE. 66 1 

" View of the Literature of the South of Europe ;" " History of the Fall of the Roman 
Empire, and of the Decline of Civilization;" and "Studies in Social Science." 
Sismondi died in 1842.] 

The talent of an improvvisatore is the gift of nature, and a talent 
which has frequently no relation to the other faculties. When it is 
manifested in a child, it is studiously cultivated, and he receives all the 
instruction which seems likely to be useful to him in his art. He is 
taught mythology, history, science, and philosophy. But the divine 
gift itself, the second and more harmonious language, which with 
graceful ease assumes every artificial form, this alone they attempt not 
to change or to add to, and it is left to develope itself according to the 
dictates of nature. Sounds call up corresponding sounds j the rhymes 
spontaneously arrange themselves in their places 5 and the inspired soul 
pours itself forth in verse, like the concords naturally elicited from the 
vibrations of a musical chord. 

The improvvisatore generally begs from the audience a subject for 
his verse. The topics usually presented to him are drawn from mytho- 
logy, from religion, from history, or from some passing event of the 
day ; but from all these sources thousands of the most trite subjects 
may be derived, and we are mistaken in supposing that we are ren- 
dering the poet a service in giving him a subject which has already 
been the object of his verse. He would not be an improvvisatore if 
he did not entirely abandon himself to the impression of the moment, 
or if he trusted more to his memory than to his feelings. After having 
been informed of his subject, the improvvisatore remains a moment in 
meditation, to view it in its various hghts, and to shape out the plan of 
the little poem which he is about to compose. He then prepares the 
eight first verses, that his mind during the recitation of them may re- 
ceive the proper impulse, and that he may awaken that powerful 
emotion, which makes him, as it were, a new being. In about seven 
or eight minutes he is fully prepared, and commences his poem, which 
often consists of five or six hundred verses. His eyes wander around 
him, his features glow, and he struggles with the prophetic spirit which 
seems to animate him. Nothing in the present age can represent in 
so striking a manner the Pythia of Delphos, when the god descended 
and spoke by her mouth. 

There is an easy metre, the same which Metastasio has employed in 
the Fartenza a Nice, and which is adapted to the air known by the 
name of the Air of the Improvvisatori. This measure is generally made 
use of when the poet wishes not to give himself much trouble, or when 
he has not the talent to attempt a higher strain. The stanza consists 
of eight lines with seven syllables in each line, and divided into two 
quatrains, each quatrain being terminated by a verso tronco, so that 



662 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [Sismondi^ 

there are properly only two of the lines rhymed in each quatrain. The 
singing sustains and strengthens the prosody, and covers, where it is 
necessary, defective verses, so that the art is in this form within the 
capacity of persons possessing very ordinary talents. All the improv- 
visatori, however, do not sing. Some of the most celebrated amongst 
them have bad voices, and are compelled to declaim their verses in a 
rapid manner, as if they were reading them. The more celebrated 
improvvisatori consider it an easy task to conform themselves to the 
most rigid laws of versification. At the will of the audience, they will 
adopt the terza rirna of Dante, or the ottava rirrca of Tasso, or any 
other metre as constrained j and these shackles of rhyme and verse 
seem to augment the richness of their imagination and their eloquence. 
The famous Gianni, the most astonishing of all the improvvisatori, has 
written nothing in the tranquillity of his closet which can give him 
any claim to his prodigious reputation. When, however, he utters his 
spontaneous verses, which are preserved by the diligence of short-hand 
writers, we remark with admiration the lofty poetry, the rich imagery, 
the powerful eloquence, and occasionally the deep thought which they 
display, and which place their author on a level with the men who are 
the glory of Italy. The famous Corinna, who was crowned in the 
Capitol, was distinguished for her lively imagination, her grace, and 
her gaiety. Another poetess. La Bandettini, of Modena, was educated 
by a Jesuit, and from him acquired a knowledge of the ancient lan- 
guages, and a familiarity with the classical authors. She afterwards 
attached herself to scientific pursuits, that she might render herself 
equal to any theme that might be proposed to her, and she thus ren- 
dered her numerous acquirements subservient to her poetical talents. 
La Fantastici, the wife of a rich goldsmith of Florence, did not devote 
herself to such abstruse branches of knowledge ; but she possessed from 
heaven a musical ear, an imagination worthy of the name she bore, 
and a facility of composition which gave full employment to her melo- 
dious voice. Madame Mazzei, whose former name was Landi, a lady 
of one of the first families in Florence, surpasses perhaps all her com- 
peers in the fertility of her imagination, in the richness and purity of 
her style, and in the harmony and perfect regularity of her verses. 
She never sings ; and absorbed in the process of invention, her 
thoughts always outstrip her words. She is negligent in her declama- 
tion, and her recitation is therefore not graceful ; but the moment she 
commences her spontaneous effusions, the most harmonious language 
in the world seems at her bidding to assume new beauties. We are 
delighted and drawn forward by the magic stream. We are trans- 
ported into a new poetical world, where to our amazement we discover 
man speaking the language of the gods. I have heard her exert her 



Porter.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 663 

talents upon subjects which were unexpectedly offered to her. I have 
heard her in the most magni6cent ottava rima celebrate the genius of 
Dante, of Machiavelli, and of Galileo. I have heard her in terza rima 
lament the departed glory and the lost liberties of Florence. I have 
heard her compose a fragment of a tragedy, on a subject which the 
tragic poets had never touched, so as to give an idea in a few scenes " 
of the plot and the catastrophe 3 and lastly, I have heard her pronounce 
confining herself to the same given rhymes, five sonnets on five dif- 
ferent subjects. But it is necessary to hear her, in order to form any 
idea of the prodigious power of this poetical eloquence, and to feel 
convinced that a nation in whose heart so bright a flame of inspiration 
still burns, has not yet accomplished her literary career, but that there 
still perhaps remain in reserve for her greater glories than any which 
she has as yet acquired. — Historical View of the Literature of the South 
of Europe i vol. ii. chap. 22. 

268.— DEPARTURE OF THADDEUS FROM WARSAW, 

[Jane Porter, 1776 — 1860. 

[Jake Porter, born 1776, was the author of "Thaddeus or Warsaw," "Scottish 
Chiefe," and other celebrated historical novels. She died i860.] 

Poland was now no place for Sobieski. He had survived all his 
kindred. He had survived the liberties of his country'. He had 
seen his king a prisoner j and his countrymen trampled on by deceit 
and cruelty. As he walked on, musing over these circumstances, he 
met wdth little interruption ; for the streets were deserted. Here and 
there a poor miserable wretch passed him, who seemed by his wan 
cheeks and haggard eyes already to repent the too successful prayers 
of the deputation. The shops were shut. Thaddeus stopped a few 
minutes in the great square, which used to be crowded with happy 
citizens, but now not one was to be seen. An awful and oppressive 
silence reigned over all. He sighed ; and walking down the east 
street, ascended that part of the ramparts which covered the Vistula. 

He turned his eyes to the spot w^here once stood the magnificent 
towers of his paternal palace. 

''Yes," cried he, *' it is now time for me to obey the last command 
of my mother ! Nothing remains of Poland but its soil ! nothing of 
my home but its ashes !" 

The Russians had pitched a detachment of tents amidst the ruins 
of Villanow3 and w^ere at this moment busying themselves in search- 
ing amongst the stupendous fragments for what plunder the fire 
might have spared. 

" Insatiate robbers 1" exclaimed Thaddeus, " Heaven will requite this 



66.4 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Porter. 

sacrilege." He thought on the Countess who lay beneath the ruins, 
and tore himself from the sight, whilst he added, '' Farewell, for ever 
farewell, thou beloved Villanow, in which I have spent 50 many bliss- 
ful years! I quit you, and my country, for ever!" As he spoke he 
raised his hands and eyes to Heaven, and pressing the picture of his 
mother to his lips and bosom, turned from the parapet against which 
he had been leaning, and walked back to his chamber 3 determining 
to prepare that night for his departure the next morning. 

He arose by daybreak ; and having gathered together all his little 
wealth, the whole of which was compressed within the portmanteau 
that was buckled on his horse ; precisely two hours before the trium- 
phal car of General Suwarrow entered Warsaw, Sobieski left it ; and 
as he rode over the streets, he bedewed its stones with his tears. 
They were the first that he had shed during the long series of his 
misfortunes ; and they now flowed so fast from his eyes that he 
could hardly discern his way out of the city. 

At the great gate his horse stopped. 

** Poor Saladin !" said Thaddeus, stroking his neck, ''are you so 
sorry at leaving Warsaw that, like your unhappy master, you linger 
to take a last look ?" 

His tears redoubled ; and the v/arder, as he opened the gate and 
closed it after him, implored permission to kiss the hand of the noble 
Count Sobieski, before he turned his back on Poland, never to return. 
Thaddeus looked kindly around, and shaking hands with the honest 
man, after saying a few friendly words to him, rode on with a loiter- 
ing step, until he reached that part of the river which divides Masovia 
from the Prussian dominions. 

Here he flung himself off his horse 5 and standing for a moment 
on the hill that rises near the bridge, retraced, with his almost bUnded 
eyes, the long and desolated lands through which he had passed 5 then 
involuntarily dropping on his knees, he plucked a tuft of grass, and 
pressing it to his lips, exclaimed, " Farewell, Poland ! Farewell, all my 
earthly happiness !" 

Almost stifled by his emotions, he put this poor relic of his country 
into his bosom ; and remounting his horse, crossed the bridge. So- 
bieski pursued the remainder of his journey with a speed vt^hich soon 
brought him to Dantzic. 

After having spent a few days in this town, by much mental exer- 
tion, he regained some firmness of mind. It was a calm arising from 
the conviction that his afflictions had gained their summit, and that 
however heavy they were, heaven laid them on as a trial of faith 
and virtue. Under this belief, he ceased to weep 3 but he never 
was seen to smile. 



Porter.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 665 

Having entered into an arrangement with the master of a vessel 
to carry him across the sea, he found that the strength of his finances 
w^ould barely defray the charges of the voyage. Considering these 
circumstances, he saw the impossibihty of taking his horse with him 
to England. This was a distressing dilemma. 

"To part from my faithful Saladin," said he to himself, '^that 
has borne me since I first could use a sword ; that has carried me 
through so many dangers, and has come with me even into exile — 
it is painful, it is ungrateful!" He was in the stable when this 
thought assailed him 3 and as the reflections followed each other, 
he again turned to the stall : " But, my poor fellow, I will not barter 
your services for gold. I will seek for some master who may be 
kind to you, in pity to my misfortunes." 

He re-entered the hotel where he lodged, and calling a waiter, 
inquired who occupied the fine mansion and park on the east of the 
town. The man replied, '^ Mr. Hopetown, an eminent British mer- 
chant, who has been settled at Dantzic above forty years." 

** I am glad he is a Briton !" was the sentiment which succeeded 
this information in the Count's mind, who immediately taking his 
resolution, had hardly prepared to put it into execution when he re- 
ceived a summons from the captain to be on board in half an hour, 
as the wind had set fair. 

Thaddeus, rather disconcerted by this hasty call, with a depressed 
heart, wrote the following letter : 

'' To John Hopetown, Esq. 

" Sir, — A Polish officer, who has sacrificed everything but his 
honour to the best interests of his country, now addresses you. 

" You are a Briton 3 and of whom can a victim to the cause of 
freedom with less debasement solicit an obligation ? 

" I cannot afford support to the horse which has carried me 
through the battles of this fatal war. I disdain to sell him 3 and 
therefore I implore you, by the respect that you pay to the memory of 
your ancestors, who struggled for, and retained that liberty in the 
defence of which we are thus reduced ! — I implore you to give him 
an asylum in your park, and to protect him from injurious usage. 

" Perform this benevolent action, sir, and you shall ever be re- 
membered with gratitude by an unfortunate " Polander. 

"Dantzic, November, 1794." 

The Count having sealed and directed this letter, went into the 
hotel yard, and ordered that his horse might be brought out. These 
few days of rest had restored him to his former mettle 3 and he 



666 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Menzel. 

appeared from the stable, prancing and pawing the earth as he used 
to do when Thaddeiis was going to mount him for the field. 

The groom was striving in vain to restrain the spirit of the horse, 
when the Count took hold of his bridle. The noble animal knew 
his master, and became as gentle as a lamb. After stroking him two 
or three times, with a bursting heart, he returned the reins into the 
man's hand, and at the same time gave him the letter. 

"There," said he, ''take that note and the horse directly to the 
house of Mr. Hopetown. Leave them ; for the letter requires no 
answer." 

So saying he walked out of the yard towards the quay. The 
wind continuing fair, he entered the ship, and within an hour set 
sail for England -, where he arrived in a few days, and going ashore 
near to the Tower of London, took a hackney coach, and proceeded 
to an hotel. — Thaddeus of fVarsaw, chap. viii. 



269.— THE BATTLE OF LUTZEN. 

[Wolfgang Menzel, 1798. 

[Wolfgang Menzel, a German critic and historian, was born at Waldenberg 
(Silesia) 1798, and was partly educated at Breslau. In 18 15 he served in the army 
as a volunteer. After the peace he continued his studies at Jena. In 1820 he went 
to Switzerland and obtained a professorship in the Municipal School of Aarau. He 
returned to his native land in 1824, and was for some time engrossed by politics in 
the States of Wurtemberg. He commenced his career as a critic in 1823, and 
founded a literary and critical journal, which attacked Goethe and his school. He 
pubHshed — 1824 and 1825 — his " History of the Germans." His next work, 
" German Literature," 1828. In 1848 he sat as a deputy in the States of Wurtem- 
berg. Menzel is a graceful poet, as well as a clever critic and historian. His chief 
works are — " Spirit of History," 1835; "Mythological Inquiries," 1842; " History 
of Europe, from 1798 to 18x55" "Furore," an historical romance of the Thirty 
Years' War; and a " History of Nature from a Christian point of View."] 

The battle of Liitzen commenced early in the morning of the 6th of 
November, 1632, not far from the scene of Tilly's former defeat. 
Gustavus would have scarcely ventured, without first awaiting the 
arrival of reinforcements, to have attacked Wallenstein, had he not 
learnt the departure of Pappenheim, who was now hastily recalled 
from Halle, which he had just reached. A thick fog, that lasted until 
eleven o'clock, hindered the marshalling of the troops, and gave the 
Pappenheimers time to reach the field before the conclusion of the 
battle. Wallenstein, although suffering from a severe attack of gout, 
mounted his steed and drew up his troops. His infantry was drawn 
up in squares, flanked by cavalry and guarded in front by a ditch de- 
fended by artillery. Gustavus, without armour, on account of a slight 



Menzel.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 667 

wound he had received at Dirschau, and exclaiming, ''At them in 
God's name ! Jesus ! Jesus ! Jesus ! let us vindicate to-day the honour 
of thy holy name !" brandished his sword over his head, and charged 
the ditch at the head of his men. The infantry crossed and seized 
the battery. The cavalry, opposed by Wallenstein's black cuirassiers, 
were less successful. "Charge those black fellows!" shouted the 
king to Colonel Stalhantsch. At that moment the Swedish infantry, 
which had already broken two of the enemy's squares, were charged 
in the iiank by Wallenstein's cavalry, stationed on the opposite wing, 
and Gustavus hurrying to their aid, the cavalry on the nearest wing 
also bore down upon him. The increasing density of the fog unfor- 
tunately veiled the approach of the imperialists, and the king, falsely 
imagining himself followed by his cavalry, suddenly found himself in 
the midst of the black cuirassiers. His horse received a shot in the 
head, and another broke his left arm. He then asked Albert, Duke 
of Saxon-Lauenburg, who was at his side, to lead him off the held, 
and, turning aw ay, was shot in the back by an imperial officer. He 
fell from his saddle 3 his foot became entangled in the stirrup, and he 
was dragged along by his horse, maddened with pain. The duke 
fled, but Luchau, the master of the royal horse, shot the officer who 
had wounded the king. Gustavus, who still lived, fell into the hands 
of the cuirassiers. His German page, Lubelfing, a youth of eighteen, 
refused to tell his master's rank, and was mortally wounded. The 
king was stripped. On his exclaiming, ''I am the King of Sweden !" 
they attempted to carry him off, but a charge of the Swedish cavalry 
compelling them to relinquish their prey, the last cuirassier, as he 
rushed past, shot him through the head.* 

The sight of the king's charger, covered with blood, wildly gallop- 
ing along the Swedish front, confirmed the report of the melancholy 
fate of his royal master. Some of the Swedish generals, more espe- 
cially Kniphausen, who drew off his men in reserve, meditated a 
retreat, but Duke Bernard of Weimar, spurning the idea with con- 
tempt and calling loudly for vengeance, placed himself at the head of 
a regiment, whose colonel, a Swede, he ran through for refusing to 
obey him, and regardless, in his enthusiasm, of a shot that carried 
away his hat, charged with such impetuosity that the ditch and the 
battery were retaken, and Wallenstein's infantry and cavalry were 
completely thrown into confusion. The latter fled ; the gunpowder 
carts were blown up 3 the day was gained. At that moment, Pappen- 



* Gustavus was extremely fine and majestic in person, his eyes were blue, and gentle 
in expression, his manners commanding, noble, and conciliating. His countenance 
was open and attractive. 



668 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Menzel. 

heim's fresh troops poured into the field and once more turned the 
battle. The body of the king, defended by Stalhantsch, was sharply 
contested by Pappenheim, who fell, pierced with two bullets. His 
men fought with redoubled rage on the death of their commander ; 
Wallenstein rallied his troops, and a desperate conflict of some hours' 
duration ensued, in which the flower of the Swedish army fell and 
the ditch and battery were lost. Bernard was forced to retreat, and 
the battle was for the third time renewed by Kniphausen's reserved 
corps, which pressed across the ditch, followed by the rest of the weary 
Swedes. This last and desperate charge was irresistible. Wallen- 
stein, driven from the field, fled across the mountains of Bohemia, 
and his brutal soldiery were scattered in every direction. Numbers 
were slain by the Protestant peasantry. Those of his oflncers who had 
first fled were afterwards put to death at his command. 

The bloody corpse of the king was found by the great stone, still 
known as the Sv/edish stone. It was laid in state before the whole of 
the Swedish army, which responded to Bernard's enthusiastic address, 
with a vow to follow him wherever he led. This enthusiasm, however, 
speedily cooled. Bernard's sole command of the troops was frustrated 
by the jealousy of the Swedish officers. In Sweden, Gustavus had 
merelv left an infant daughter, Christina. The ex-king of Bohemia 
died of horror, at Mayence, on receiving the news of the death of 
his friend and protector. His consort, Elizabeth Stuart, resided for 
many years afterwards at Rhenen* near Utrecht. The battle of 
Liitzen filled the imperialists, notwithstanding their defeat, with the 
greatest delight. Public rejoicings were held at Madrid. The 
Emperor Ferdinand discovered no immoderate joy at his success, and 
even showed some signs of pity on seeing the blood-stained collar of 
his late foe. The pope. Urban VIII. , ordered a mass to be read for 
the soul of the fallen monarch, whose power had curbed that of the 

* Elizabeth Stuart dwelt for a considerable period at Rhenen under the protection of 
the States-general, mourning for her husband, whose place of burial was unknown, her 
brother, Charles I. of England, whose head had rolled on the scaffold, and her unfor- 
tunate children. Her eldest son, Henry Frederick, was drowned [a.d. 1629] at 
Amsterdam. The second, Charles Louis, became, on the termination of the war, 
elector of the Pfalz, but lived unhappily with his wife, and, taking a mistress, his 
mother refrained from returning thither. The third, Rupert, after distinguishing him- 
self against Cromwell and Spain, remained with his mother and occupied himself with 
the study of chemistry. The fourth, Maurice, disappeared after a naval engagement 
with the Spanish flotilla, and was supposed to have been lost in a storm at sea. The 
fifth, Edward, dishonoured his family, that had suffered so much for the sake of 
religion, by turning Catholic, and entered the French service. The sixth, Philip, a 
brave adventurer, murdered a nobleman and fled into France. He was killed in the 
trench service during a siege. The seventh, Gustavus, died in his boyhood. The 
eldest daughter, Elizabeth, rejected the hand of Ladislaw of Poland from a religious 



Pringle.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 669 

emperor. The emperor's foes have, at every period^ been regarded 
with secret good-will by the pope. 

Axel Oxenstierna, Gastavus's minister, and his most faithful friend, 
became regent of Sweden during the minority of the queen, Chris- 
tina, and followed in the footsteps of his noble master. But he was 
merely a statesman, not a military leader 3 a minister, not a king. 
Sweden, instead of placing a Protestant emperor on the throne of 
Germany, could henceforward merely endeavour to secure liberty of 
conscience to the German Protestants. Gustavus's ambition had 
embraced the whole of Germany ; that of Oxenstlerna simply extended 
to the possession of one of her provinces. Had Gustavus lived, Ger- 
many might have become great, united, and happy ; France would 
have been confined within her limits 3 Sv/eden would have become a 
German province ; the German provinces on the Baltic would have 
been incorporated with the empire ; Livonia would have been saved, 
and the Russians checked. Oxenstlerna, by his project for the dis- 
memberment of Germany and his consequent coalition with France, 
was, instead of the friend^ the most dangerous foe to the German 
cause. The coalition of the Catholics and Protestants for the expul- 
sion of the foreigner was urgently necessary for the salvation of the 
empire, but the Protestants, intimidated by the edict of restitution, 
placed no confidence in the promises of their Jesuitical sovereign. 
The confederated princes, bribed by French gold, promises, and grants, 
still carried on the war and remained true to Oxenstlerna, who, not- 
withstanding the opposition offered by France and Saxony, was 
elected head of the confederacy in a convocation of the princes held 
at Heilbronn. — The History of Germany, vol. ii. paragraph 208. 



270.— SNAKES AND THEIR ANTIDOTES. 

[Thomas Pringle, 1789 — 1834. 

[Thomas Pringle, born at Blaiklaw, Teviotdale, 1789, was the son of a farmer, and 
was educated at the Grammar School of Kelso, and the University of Edinburgh. 
He started the " Edinburgh Monthly Magazine," having for coadjutors Lockhait, 



motive, studied philosophy, was a friend of Descartes and of William Penn, the founder 
of Pennsylvania, and died Lutheran abbess of Herford. The second, Henrietta Maria, 
married Ragoczy, Prince of Transylvania, but died shortly after the wedding. The 
third, Louisa, had a talent for painting, and remained for a long time with Rupert in 
attendance on her mother, whom she suddenly quitted in order to take the veil. She 
became Catholic abbess of Maubuisson. The fourth, Sophia, married a poor prince, 
Ernest Augustus of Brunswick-Luneburg, the youngest of four brothers. Elizabeth 
and her son Rupert, the only one of her numerous family left in her old age, repaired 
to England on the restoration of the Stuarts. She died there, a.d. 1662. Rupert 
also died in England, leaving no legitimate issue. 



670 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [Pringk. 

Dr. Brewster, Hos;g, and Wilson, Scott supplied an article on the Gipsies in its 
first number. The mag-azine passing into the hands of the Messrs, Blackwood, 
changed its name to the now famous one, " Blackwood's Magazine." In 1820 
Pringle and his brothers settled as farmers at the Cape of Good Hope. The families 
prospered. By the influence chiefly of Scott, Pringle obtained the post of librarian 
to the Government at Cape Town, and started a newspaper. The South .African 
Journal. But the governor having declared that it contained a libel against him- 
self, Pringle got into difficulties, and was obliged to return to England. He went 
to London and tried to obtain compensation for his losses, but in vain. From 
that time he adopted literature as a profession. His chief works are "A Jflarcatiwe 
of a Residence in South Africa," "An Account of English Settlers in Albany, SoBlh 
Africa," and several small collections of poems. He died in 1834.] 

It is not verj" unusual for snakes of various sorts to be found 
in the houses at the Cape, nor does it, in ordinary cases, exdte 
any violent alarm when such inmates are discovered. They make 
their way both through the roofs and under the walls, in search 
of food and shelter, and especially in pursuit of mice, which many 
of them chiefly subsist upon. During my residence in the inte- 
rior, however, I recollect only tvs^o instances of their being found 
in my own cabin. On one of these occasions I had sent a servant 
girl (a bare-legged Hottentot) to bring me some article from a 
neighbouring hut. On returning with it, she cried out be£M« 
entering the cabin — " Oh, what shall I do ? A snake has twined 
itself round my ankles, and if I open the door he will come into 
the house." "Nevermind," I replied: "open the door, and let 
him come in if he dare." She obeyed, and in glided the snake ; 
luckily without ha\ing harmed the poor girl. I stood prepared, and 
instantly smote him dead ; and afterwards found him to be one of the 
venomous sort called nachtsla?ig. 

People become used to these things ; and even Europeans by 
degrees come to regard them with much indilference. While on a 
visit at the late worthy Major Pigot's, near Graham's Town, one day 
on going to take a book from some shelves in the drawing-room, I 
found a beautiful yellow snake, about six feet long, lying asleep upon 
the uppermost range of books. At first I took it for a stuffed 
specimen j but seeing hira move his tail, I instantly lent him such a 
thwack as broke the poor fellow's back, and enabled me to demc^h 
him at leisure. I afterwards learned that another snake had been 
killed a few days previously in the veiy same spot, and a thirxl in 
the chamber where my wife and T slept. But they were all of the 
loovi-slang family, and perfectly harmless. 

Annoying and alarming as is the occasional presence of these 
reptiles in the gardens and chambers of the inhabitants in South 
Africa, the number of fatal accidents resulting from them is never- 
theless remarkably few. Out of nearly five thousand British emi- 



Pringk.] OF ^r(\^^.^.v /l 'TFJv.^rr.^r. ^-T 

grants settled in A":.-: . I : : c r.: heard of :v.\ :'::.■:. : \^ or t>.:r 
deaths in a dozen }o.::s ..\.;- . . ^ bv rhe bito .: ^ . ^.^ . . i 1 n^ .■> 
informed by tiie Rev. ISlr t \ >uperinle/> . ; M. :.:\ 

missions, that among seven .v c : ;'i"i.^'~ed H ::;;.<, ;>; ' v 
resident at the villain of Gtmavic.- . -. . ; - ; i.: .w .; wi 

from this cause during seven years tan lie h...: ^ ^ \. ... Many 
individuals, indeed, had been bitten during that v ■. .: : them, 

with those two o\.\; " :^. ' ,: leen cured, e::;:^ - \ .: c- ;n 
common use am."^ : . 1 . . :> (ns rransm-::: i ^ ' ;- : \ :m 
their ancestor>\ .^v :^;. •;>..- \::;.^ .^■;' ,;::;, .:.^:c-- '\:v:-"-'-;\\ ■^■. ::.^ :-.v--,.-".\:- c^s. 

Eaa de luoc ,- :^v ::-.^^: .\-;:-. --.^: .i:-.: .■;^r-\^\v\\ .-::: .■.^:.^ .\^^:^\'^ .\1 
by Europeans. The ir.\:.' .^f ;>.•:: ,: ;> :.^ c ^^ :-".o :m; .^:: :".\v^ .\:\^;^s 
in a glass of water, a-.: :.^ :.. v: :'v v-.^. ... \ :,— : : .^;.- : .. :-^o 
force of the po->.^:i Iv .\-;: -u: .:.:..: — .ir;. ^-^ ■: .-'-.^ .•: :':..^ -^.-^^e 
time externally to t;v n\\--.;;-o. I'oo v.\;.v.->:. .::-o v.-r':.':^> :;-o 'oo>;t 
remedy, if instantly and l\ 'o'n .-oo'uo. .-ro ooo - .\ o-.o% n ;:^e 
among the natives, is to <i:ok :;-o ^^ o;:::o \\ oV \% :>. :>o o-o-::.\ l:\ .\c\:\^^ 
this, no dango:- ::.\\: oo ;;': \.-. ;■.'.. o .^ . : /o oo. -.vio- ■.::-\-^> there 
should happen :o oo .;;- . v ,;,^ o: o.: -.0;.: o .1.0.:. :/o ' :^^ o: to:i^ne 
which might .■::o:\i :;:l^ o.- -0;-. 0:00: .ioo.'>- :o ;:-,o o'ooo : t'ov :t 
is well kno\\"n that the voro;- of :oo o-.o-: .'o.-oo >o.;ko-; o\-'. 00 
swallowed with impunity. 1 v -^o. : ^ :oon\oooo ; -000 oe 
well scaritied with a lancet or ponknire. 000 .: '0 a co ;o ok\o ooolv. 
If sweet milk can be had, the patient is m..o.o .0 o; /^ ot . . 00 J. i v::\ . 
and the wounded part is also immersed in it, or bathed with br.mdy or 
hartshorn. 

The following singular remedy is much used by tl Ho: o:>. 
and by many of the colonists, who have borrowed : . ^^. 
When a person is bit by any of the more venomous snako>, 00 ^.:o 
fowl is instantly procured, and the fleshy part of the bo < ^ c t 
open, it is pressed fresh and palpitating to the woiroJ. loo \ o> >, 
by this means, rapidly abstracted^ and if the poison bo \ n 00 u..\ . 
tlie fowl speedily exhibits clear proof of its malign.. o\ — 0000 0.0s 
drowsy, droops its head, and dies. It is then withdrawn, .oo.d .1 sooo.ul 
is cut open and applied in the same manner , — a thial. if requisite ; 
and so on, until it appears, from the decreased intinenoe of tlvo poison 
on the fowls, that its destructi\'e virulence is eifectr. ; . .Ovk 

The worst crisis is then considered to be past, and tue p.io.eoit ui 
most cases recovers. 

An instance of the successful use of the above remedy was men- 
tioned to me by Mr. Wait, a Scotch farmer, at Canttv^s River, near 
Algoa Bay. His youngest child, a fine boy of about three years of 
age, while playing in the garden, had stumbled on a very large puif- 



IBi 



672 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pringle. 

adder, and was bit by it. The mother (to whom the terrified infant 
betook itself, lisping out that a ' big worm ' had bit it) instantly cut 
open the breast of a fowl, as she had been previously instructed to do 
by the Hottentots, and applied it to the part. In a few minutes the 
animal sickened and died. A second was applied and died also. A 
third was so much affected by the venom as to appear giddy and 
stupid, but survived the operation. The child was then made to drink 
largely of sweet milk 3 the limb was placed in a running stream, 
and afterwards smeared over with tar, which gradually removed the 
violent inflammation, and the livid hue which had begun to spread 
over it j and in the course of a few days the parents enjoyed the 
happiness of seeing their child (rescued by this means alone from a 
frightful death) once more restored to perfect health. 

A large serpent, resembling the boa-constrictor, is found in the 
country north-east of Natal, and in the vicinity of the Orange River ; 
and rumours prevail among the Hottentots of its being also occasionally 
found within the colony. If it exists so far south, however, it must 
be extremely rare, as I never was able to discover a well authenti- 
cated instance of its being seen. 

A large amphibious lizard, called the leguan, a species of guana, is 
found in the rivers. It has sometimes been mistaken for the croco- 
dile, but is perfectly harmless, and subsists upon vegetables, earth- 
worms, and insects. It is from three to six feet long. It lives partly 
on land, but always near some deep pool of a river, to which it 
betakes itself with great celerity, if surprised. Its flesh and eggs are 
considered delicate food. An amusing incident occurred with one of 
these reptiles when our party first came up Glen-Lynden. Two of 
our Scotch servants being out with their guns, found a leguan asleep 
on the bank of the river. Supposing it to be a crocodile, they 
valorously determined to shoot it, but took aim over a ledge of rock, 
at a cautious distance, and with so much trepidation, that the supposed 
crocodile, more surprised than harmed, effected a rapid retreat to the 
water. On relating the adventure, the size and terrible appearance of 
the animal were ludicrously exaggerated, the creature being repre- 
sented as at least ten or twelve feet long 3 while the lads were ready 
to make bona fide affidavit that their bullets rebounded like peas from 
the impenetrable scales of this monstrous kayman. 

Among the numerous small lizards of the country is found the 
curious and delicate chameleon. One species of lizard, called the 
geitje, of about the same size as the chameleon, but much more rare, 
is considered very venomous. I heard of several well-authenticated 
instances of noxious and even fatal efflscts from its bite, but never saw 
the reptile itself, — Narrative of a Residence in South Africa, chap. viii. 



Mde. de Stael.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 673 



271.— KLOPSTOCK. 

[Madame de Stael, 1768 — 1817. 

[Anne Germaine de Stael, born at Paris 1768, was the daughter of Necker, minister 
of Finance under Louis XVI. She was carefully educated, and published her first 
work, " Letters on the Character and Writings of Rousseau," at an early age. She 
had previously married the Baron de Stael-Holstein, the Swedish Ambassador, a man 
much older than herself. Her parents left France when the Revolution broke out, 
but Madame de Stael, as an ambassador's wife, was suffered to remain there. At 
first she sympathized with the Revolution, but the sufferings of the royal family 
opened her eyes to its true character, and she had the courage to print a defence of 
Marie Antoinette, under the title of "Reflections upon the Trial of the Queen," but 
during the Reign of Terror she was compelled to seek safety in exile. Her two 
famous novels, " Corinne " and " Delphine " assured her literary position, and con- 
tained her impressions of Italy and Switzerland. Her celebrated work, " Germany " 
(de I'AUemagne), appeared in 1810: 10,000 copies of the work were instantly 
seized by Napoleon's orders. He had before banished her. She returned to Paris 
after the Emperor's abdication in 18 14, and was suffered to remain there after his 
return. On the restoration of the Bourbons, she retired again to Switzerland, and 
never again interfered in politics. After the Baron de Stael's death, she privately 
married M. Rocca. She was one of the most remarkable and highly-gifted women 
that ever lived. She died in Switzerland 181 7.] 

Though somewhat heavy and phlegmatic in his poetry, Klopstock is 
said to have been extremely lively and fluent in society, and to have 
regulated the exuberance of his imagination with much better effect in 
his conversation than he was wont to do in his writings. His wit was 
poignant and sportive, yet usually dignified and commanding j and his 
eloquence in recital always surpassed the most studied and elaborate of 
his compositions. One distinguishing trait in his character seems to 
have been a lofty feeling of superiority, arising probably in a great 
measure out of the consciousness of his own genius and capabilities. 
He was very partial to the society of young people, and used to observe, 
in illustration of this predilection, that the company of a young sim- 
pleton was at all times preferable to that of an old/ooZ / 

We saw a painting in the possession of a gentleman at Hamburgh, 
by the elegant Angelica Kaufmann, the subject of which was taken 
from the second canto of the Messiah : this accomplished artist appears 
to have lived on terms of great intimacy with Klopstock. In a corner 
of the picture close to the frame, are inserted these words : '' From 
Angelica Kaufmann to her friend and associate, Klopstock." The poet 
wished to have employed her in delineating various other scenes from 
the Messiah ; but the injunctions he imposed upon her w^re so abun- 
dantly absurd, that she entirely relinquished the idea she had previously 
entertained of illustrating the work. Klopstock wanted her to paint 
angels without wings, and to introduce disembodied spirits that were 
to differ materially from the' heavenly hierarchy. He also insisted tliat 

X X 



674 



THE 1 7"E F. Y- DAY BOOK 



[Mde^deSla^ 



the head of Christ wool i r : 
Rem, with man j other . :. 

Klopstock's poetry hi - ; - 
now beginning to find : : : r - 
of forcible and liiid im ; r r : 
in mystical abstraction, •: : r. — 
bis imagination into baJi : 5 
bis diction, wbicJi is pre : r 
m^amcvphosed in tran;^: 7. 
in some of bis dramati: 
lacter is once overtbiov. r 
does not speedilj recover -.:..- 
reader to relisb and dc. u r. 
Klopstock is everywhere : : 

We afterwards passe c : 
tically situated cim - : - i r 1 
the fest wife of KL : : r : 
of white marble, decorated " 
other, at the foot of which a: 
•Seed ssmrei by G- 

Then foEows an iuscriptioii, 

** In that happy r^cn vr! 
Klopstock awaits her fnenc 
an aflSbctian, and by wbom si: 
ciMisammation of oar wishe r 
stock, and I, and onr child, 
into the w<Mdd.'*t 

Tbe glare is almost snrr : 
part shaded by the branches 
hood is beantifbl in tbeextrr 
which daode knew so wei '. 
extent of wood and water . 
ooold soothe tbe eye or en ^ 
rdoctantly berearing th = 
we left it to proceed or 
Those who bare kn 
bim. RebgioD, lihert 7 
profession was found 
gare np tbe cause of 1 
it J and fideUty conset- 



oite eqoal to that by Gnido 

mloos and nnreasooableu 

: verrated, and it is (Mify 

: - me his writings are foil 

: zently loses himself 

\Lz rsteainedferroorof 

:..'--. H : r - r cipal merit is 

: ; r r -.:. r >r ^ojored and 

: r : 11 : 7 ^ of dignity 

. r r. : :. T : . r r --z : 'A 1 chsi- 

:_--■: : ::. • -i , -■ . :.:_. -. —jad 



■^irSssfg' to r^poL. 



no uMHe, HUaigaieta 
m she has so great 

r^en at that gjbrioos 
- : my Klop- 

: - 1 ". : r:: e to bring 



3iis canvas — a ricb 
-ietty of olbject that 
:m was, as it were, 
: r. i ^iftest smile as 

■ ry admire 

>feligioiis 

even 

rakd 
. 7 .:, Never 



t This is pnrp 



Mrs. Alexander."! 



R.V 



fe7S 



had he recourse to hi> re :.:..: :.^ .-: 
soul without leading it .'.r.-ij . \: > >.: ,. 
of wit and taste; that he lovec :/; >:: 
French women, and that he "W2> . ::- -. 
and grace which pedaatiy reprt n ; v . r 
always something of uuivansalitv c^ ^ 
by secret ties to grace, at least .. 
nature. How far distant i? v.. 
of van i ty , w hich many write : « ; ^ \ , - 
of the talents they possessed : it tiic v . 
defects would have agitated them. ^^ ; 
at our own perfections, w: i: " :.l 
mediocrity of our character —: '.::.■: i. 
modesty; for we feel from w:.. ^ : 

sensible of the limit, which He ..: . v> 
to it. 

From the last moments of >^. r . K 
drawn a picture of the death-bed oi 
w^as also on his death-bed, he repe;?Tc.- 
piring voice; he recollected then: ; , 
and in feeble accents he pronourii;d . 
well: thus, the sentiments expresses: 
form the consolation of his closing lii ; 

Ah ! how noble a gift is gi^ios, v : ^ 
when it has been employed only in :: 
attractive form of the fine arts, die gi : 
hopes which have befoie lain dormai:: 

This same passage of the death ot / . 
ser\ice at Klopstock's funeraL The .:; 
live, but the virtuous man was aires./ 
palms which renew existence and flov. - 
inhabitants of Hamburgh rendered :. : 
honours which elsewhere are scarcely e\ 
and power, and the manes of Klopstock 
the excellence of his life had merited. — J 



.d his 

•>fbll 



ith the bmial 
.^eased to 

. -.mTQortal 
: \.^ :.he 



;§»<, voL i. 



272.— THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 

[M«s. C F. Alexanoem. 

[Mrs. Cecil Fkaxces ALEXAKDsm is the wife of a katmed dhrine, Rsident at Stn- 
bane. She is well known as the aadioRss of some of the most beaadful hymns 
and sacred songs in oar hi^uase. She is the edioess of * The Sunday Book of 
Poetiy" — a <innuuig ooUeotioa of sacred vase Jbr the young ; and is the author of 



676 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [Mrs. Alexander. 

" Hymns for Little Children." We are indebted to her and her publisher, Mr. 
Masters, for permission to give the following poem.] 

By Nebo's lonely mountain. 

On this side Jordan's wave. 
In a vale in the land of Moab 

There lies a lonely grave. 
And no man knows that sepulchre. 

And no man saw it e'er. 
For the angels of God upturned the sod. 

And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the trampling. 

Or saw the train go forth — 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done. 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into the great sun. 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves. 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves ; 
So without sound of music. 

Or voice of them that wept 
Silently down from the mountain's crown. 

The great procession swept. 
Perchance the bald old eagle. 

On grey Beth-Peor's height. 
Out of his lonely eyrie, 

Look'd on the wondrous sight 5 
Percliance the lion stalking 

Still shuns that hallow'd spot, 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 
But when the warrior dietli, 

His comrades in the war. 
With arms reversed and muffled drum. 

Follow his funeral carj 
They show the banners taken. 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless steed. 

While peals the minute gun. 



Mrs. Alexander.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 677 

Amid the noblest of the land 

We lay the sage to rest. 
And give the bard an honour'd place. 

With costly marble drest. 
In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall. 
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 

This was the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword j 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word j 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen. 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honour, — 

The hill-side for a pall, 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall. 
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes. 

Over his bier to wave. 
And God's own hand in that lonely land. 

To lay him in the grave ? 

In that strange grave without a name. 

Whence his uncoffin'd clay 
Shall break again, O wondrous thought ! 

Before the Judgment day, 
And stand with glory wrapt around 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife that won our life. 

With the Incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely grave in Moab's land ! 

O dark Beth-Peor's hill ! 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

A.nd teach them to be still. 
God hath His mysteries of grace. 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 



678 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Pair. 

273.— FAITH AND MORALITY. 

[Dr. Samuei- Parr, 1746-7 — 1825. 
[Samuel Parr was born at Harrow-on-the-Hill, 1746-7. He was intended for the 
medical profession, but displayed such great talents that his father was induced to 
send him to Cambridge, where he greatly distinguished himself. His father's death 
in 1767 obliged him to quit the University and become assistant-master at Harrow 
School. After the death of Dr. Sumner, the head master. Parr applied for the 
mastership, but his candidature proving unsuccessful he retired to Norwich. In 1786 
he settled at a small living in Warwickshire, where he spent the remainder of his life. 
He was a man of great learning and strong political views. He died 1825.] 

St. John speaks of faith as the instrument of the conquest over the 
world — as the spring which sets in motion our efforts to be virtuous — 
which quickens their vigour and directs their aim. In this position 
the Apostle has not done what his interpreters are prone to do j he has 
neither perplexed what is distinct, nor united what is irrelative. Faith, 
exercised on the evidences and laws of revealed religion, sets before 
you the beauty of holiness, the deformity of sin, the charms of God's 
mercy, and the terrors of his wrath. It lays open to us the excellence 
of heavenly joys, which we ought to pursue ; the hollowness of earthly 
gratifications, which we ought to abandon -, the severity of hell tor- 
ments, which we ought to shun. It represents to you the various 
offices of Christ, and the relations severally resulting from them. If 
he be our teacher, we should be careful to follow his instructions. If 
he be our redeemer, we should be anxious not to forfeit our portion in 
the blessings of redemption. If he be our judge, we should be inde- 
fatigable to secure his approbation. 

A Gospel thus circumstanced must be calculated to influence every 
part of our conduct — to convince the understanding, to engage the 
affections, and to regulate the will 5 but if that Gospel be reduced to 
a matter of private speculation^ or public profession — if it only in- 
terests curiosity, soothes melancholy, or flatters pride, our assent to it 
may not be insincere — it cannot be meritorious j it must, in some 
measure, be criminal. You will object, perhaps, " Is it possible for 
merit and guilt to inhere in the same subject ? or, is it proper for the 
sacred writers to condemn in one place what in another they extol ?" 
I answer, no 3 but it is neither impossible nor improper for them to 
speak differently of an act marked by some fixed, well-known appel- 
lation, as that act be complicated with different circumstances, or 
applied to different ends. It is the distinctive property of a Christian 
faith to produce that assemblage of moral and religious qualifications 
which, in the emphatical and comprehensive style of Scripture, is 
called righteousness. Where these qualitications unite in one character, 
we shall discern a propriety in all the magnificent and accumulated 
commendations bestowed upon faith. 



Parr.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 679 

Here then let us attempt a short, but, T hope, an exact and satis- 
factory solution of the dispute so long agitated about the comparative 
value of faith and works. Faith, considered separately from works, 
is certainly inferior to them, because our wills, as I before observed to 
you, in the first case are passive, and in the next endowed with 
activity ; and hence arises the distinction between intellectual and 
moral approbation — intellectual approbation always excluding choice, 
and moral always supposing it. But faith, considered in reference to 
works, and in conjunction with them, steps forward to the more 
honourable station ; since, by a rule which pervades all existences in 
all modes, the cause must be prior to the effect, generally in order of 
time, and invariably in order of dignity. Works without faith may 
have some little merit 5 but faith without works can have none. 
Works are exceedingly improv^ed by faith, and faith is quite perfected 
by works. In this elevated point of view St. John speaks of faith in 
the words of my text,* and in other parts of the Epistle whence it is 
taken. In chap. iii. 3, he mentions a good life as the genuine produce 
of a Christian belief; because every man that has hopes of seeing 
Christ (where hope pre-supposes faith) purifies himself even as he is 
pure. He insists upon it as the surest criterion of the Christian 
character; because whatever is born of God doth not commit sin. 
To guard against the misconstructions of those who usurp the honour 
of regeneration, and then exclude sin from works^ which in the un- 
regenerate are confessedly sinful, he tells us, that by the observance or 
neglect of righteousness the children of God and of the Devil are 
made manifest. Our Saviour has thus made some parts of our be- 
haviour the sure signs of the principle from which the whole pro- 
ceeds — " by their fruits you shall know them." 

From these and other expressions, carefully weighed in the balance 
of the sanctuary, it appears that St. John speaks not of that faith 
which is confined to a bare acknowledgment of Christ's mission, or 
abstruse researches into his doctrines. An effect so important as that 
of overcoming the world, calls upon us to trace out some higher 
cause ; it leads us to that vital principle of religion, which gives proof 
of its energy in the performance of actions intrinsically excellent — in 
the government of all vicious appetites — in forbearance from all un- 
lawful enjoyments — and in a total subjection of ourselves and our con- 
cerns to the will of God. It was by this full strict correspondence 
between their words and their deeds that St. John's followers dis- 
tinguished themselves, and on this alone they grounded their preten- 
sions to the prerogatives of the Gospel. But had they persisted in 



* I John V. 4. 



68o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Parr. 

those practices which the corruptions of Pagan morality had intro- 
duced, and the imperfections of Pagan philosophy did not disallow, 
these pretensions could not have been urged with any shadow of 
justice J they would only have convicted these deluded wretches of 
folly in the erroneous notions they had formed about a right to 
acceptance — of inconsistence in pretending to stand forth for the 
honour of Christ's religion, while they frustrated every purpose 
for which he established it — of perverseness, because they were 
addicted to every pursuit that he had prohibited — and of ingra- 
titude, because they eventually rejected every blessing that he had 
offered. 

Let us bring home the Evangelist's precept to ourselves. Survey 
the conduct of those who name the name of Christ without over- 
coming the world, and then judge at what distance they stand from 
the duties, and therefore from the rewards, of his Gospel. Some men 
amass riches or pant after the distinctions of power. Others give up 
their innocence and their tranquillity, a prey to the canker of discon- 
tent, and incur the guilt of loving the world without obtaining the 
satisfaction of enjoying it. The attention of many is either dissipated 
in a giddy circle of trifling amusements, or strained in the pursuit of 
attainments where solid use is exchanged for splendid display, or un- 
strung, as it were, in a state of lazy, languid listlessness, equally irksome 
to themselves, and unprofitable to others. Yet more consume their 
lives amidst the riots of intemperance, the intrigues of seduction, and 
the outrages of debauchery, and heap crime upon crime, without re- 
morse for the past, and without preparation for the future. This wild 
harvest of follies and vices is to be found among those who profess at 
least to believe the Gospel, and who, when the prospect of another 
life breaks in on their worldly dreams, form I know not how crude 
and hasty hopes of deriving I know not what advantages from the in- 
terposition of a Redeemer. But will it be said that this Redeemer 
has given any sanction to their practices, or holds out any glimmerings 
of comfort, unless to those whom faith has led into the first dawnings 
of repentance, and repentance afterwards conducted to the meridian 
light of Christian hope? If you reply in the negative, it is the height 
of madness to appropriate the favour of God, while you continue to 
violate his commands. Will it be said, that men who make duty bend 
to inclination have true love for their Saviour, or reverence for their 
Creator ? Can their interests be fixed in Heaven, while their aff'ections 
are weighed down by the clogs of earthly pleasures ? or have they, in 
any degree, attained that purity of thought, and that holiness of life, 
without which no min shall see the Lord ? The weakness of honour- 
ing religion by our r»»ouths, while we disgrace it by our actions — the 



Parr.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 68i 

wickedness of claiming God's approbation without endeavouring to de- 
serve it, are clearly shown in the reproofs that our blessed Saviour pointed 
against the hypocrisy and the pride of the Jews. This people boasted 
thenaselves the descendants of Abraham and the favourites of Jehovah ; 
but their boasts were arrogant and vain, so long as they imitated not 
the patriarch's righteousness, and set at nought the commands of their 
God. They could not in strict propriety be said to know the master, 
whom they did not obey j or, at least, their knowledge of his will 
served only to aggravate the crime of transgressing it, and added inso- 
lence to impiety — perfidy to rebellion. 

For the same reason, we Christians stand inexcusable in confessing 
the excellence of a law that we obstinately violate. We voluntarily 
earn the wages of unrighteousness, while we claim the privileges of 
virtue. We are enslaved by the shackles of worldly temptations when 
surrounded by every expedient that should make us free 3 and though 
eternal glory be the prize set before us, instead of exerting our 
resolute and reiterated efforts to obtain it, we utter a few idle pro- 
fessions, — we form a few unauthorized hopes, which answer no end 
but that of exposing our absurdity and our inconsistence — the deceit 
we put upon ourselves, and the horrid indignity we offer to our Judge. 
Do not imagine this description exaggerated. If the recollection of 
your own sins makes you afraid to think it true — if the secret cor- 
ruptions of your heart would persuade you to think it false, reflect, 
I beseech you, reflect, before it is too late, on the only plea which such 
an offender can support on the last day. 

Thus will he speak — I acknowledge that the blessed Jesus 
designed to further the salvation of mankind, and that his Gospel is 
admirably framed to effect it, by reforming their liv^es, if such refor- 
mation be necessary 5 but as the way that his moral precepts opened to 
happiness was tedious and painful, I struck aside into another path, 
whither my passions guided me, and my pleasures followed me. He 
commanded me, no doubt, to abstain from sensual gratifications, but 1 
have wallowed in them — to renounce wealth, but I have grasped at it 
— to despise power, but I have thirsted for it. Yet I call myself a son 
of God, and of course am entitled to all the privileges of that rela- 
tion, even though I have fulfilled none of its conditions. I ever took 
my rank under the banners of Christ, though I have not sacrificed 
one interest or subdued one lust in his service. I have extolled with- 
out obeying his laws. I have admired without imitating his example. 
But for what purpose should I have engaged in these laborious works ? 
I had risen to the towering heights of faith — of a faith unshaken and 
most unlimited. In consequence of that faith, I, who have willingly 
been a captive to the world, challenge a reward not less distinguished 



'682 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Hall. 

than falls to the share of other men, who have overconae it at the 
loss of all that is dear to flesh and blood. 

My brethren, let your own consciences determine how far such 
pretensions can avail before the just and awful tribunal of Jesus 
Christ. — Parrs Works, vol. vi. 



274.— VARIETY WHICH CHARACTERIZES WORKS OF IMAGINATION. 

[Rev. Robert Hall, 1764 — 1831. 

[Robert Hall was a distinguished preacher of the sect of Baptists. He was born at 
Ormsby, Leicestershire, 1764, and performed his duties as a Baptist minister in 
Cambridge, Leicester, and Bristol, at which city he died 1831. " Whoever wishes 
to see the English language in its perfection," says Dugald Stewart, "must read the 
writings of that great divine Robert Hall."] 

To explain the particular causes which \zrj the direction of the fancy 
in different men, would perhaps be no easy task. 

We are led, it may be at first through accident, to the survey of one 
class of objects -, this calls up a particular train of thinking, which we 
afterwards freely indulge ; it easily finds access to the mind upon all 
occasions -, the slightest accident serves to suggest it. It is nursed by 
habit, and reared up with attention, till it gradually swells to a torrent 
which bears away every obstacle, and awakens in the mind the con- 
sciousness of peculiar powers. Such sensations eagerly impel to a par- 
ticular purpose, and are sufficient to give to the mind a distinct and 
determinate character. 

Poetical genius is likewise much under the influence of the passions. 
The pleased and the splenetic, the serious and the gay, survey nature 
with very different eyes. That elevation of fancy, which, with a 
melancholy turn, will produce scenes of gloomy grandeur and awful 
solemnity, will lead another, of a cheerful complexion, to delight, by 
presenting images of splendour and gaiety, and by inspiring gladness 
and joy. To these and other similar causes may be traced that bound- 
less variety which diversifies the works of imagination, and which is so 
great that I have thought the perusal of fine authors is like traversing 
the different regions of the earth : some glow with a pleasant and re- 
freshing warmth, whilst others kindle with a fierce and fiery heat j in 
one we meet with scenes of elegance and art, where all is regular, and 
a thousand beautiful objects spread their colours to the eye, and regale 
the senses ; in another, we behold nature in an unadorned majestic 
simplicity, scouring the plain with a tempest, sitting upon a rock, or 
walking upon the wings of the wind. Here we meet with a Sterne, 
who fans us with the softest delicacies; and there a Rousseau, who 
hurries us along in whirlwind and tempest. Hence that delightful 



Hall.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 683 



succession of emotions which is felt in the bosom of sensibility. We 
feel the empire of genius, we imbibe the impression, and the mind re- 
sembles an enchanted mansion, which, at the touch of some superior 
hand, at one time brightens into beauty, and at another darkens into 
horror. Even where the talents of men approach most nearly, an 
attentive eye will ever remark some small shades of difference sufficient 
to distinguish them. Perhaps few authors have been distinguished by 
more similar features of character than Homer and Milton. Thatvast- 
ness of thought which fills the imagination, and that sensibility of 
spirit which renders every circumstance interesting, are the qualities of 
both : but Milton is the most sublime, and Homer the most pic- 
turesque. Homer lived in an early age, before knowledge was much 
advanced ; he would derive little from any acquired abilities, and there- 
fore may be styled the poet of nature. To this source, perhaps, we may 
trace the principal difference betwixt Homer and Milton. The Grecian 
poet was left to the movements of his own mind, and to the full in- 
fluence of that variety of passions which is common to all : his concep- 
tions therefore are distinguished by their simplicity and force. In 
Milton, who was skilled in almost every department of science, learn- 
ing seems sometimes to have shaded the splendour of his genius. 

No epic poet excites emotions so fervid as Homer, or possesses so 
much fire ; but in point of sublimity he cannot be compared to Milton. 
I rather think the Greek poet has been thought to excel in this quality 
more than he really does, for want of a proper conception of its effects. 
When the perusal of an author raises us above our usual tone of mind, 
we immediately ascribe those sensations to the sublime, without con- 
sidering whether they light on the imagination or the feelings ; 
whether they elevate the fancy or only fire the passions. 

The sublime has for its object the imagination only, and its influence 
is not so much to occasion any fervour of feeling, as the calmness of 
fixed astonishment. If we consider the sublime as thus distinguished 
from every other quality, Milton will appear to possess it in an unrivalled 
degree ; and here indeed lies the secret of his power. The perusal of 
Homer inspires us with an ardent sensibility 3 Milton with the stillness 
ot surprise. The one fills and delights the mind with the confluence 
of various emotions ; the other amazes with the vastness of his ideas. 
The movements of xM ikon's mind are steady and progressive 5 he car- 
ries the fancy through successive stages of elevation, and gradually 
increases the heat by adding fuel to the fire. 

The flights of Homer are more sudden and transitory ; Milton, 
whose mind was enlightened by science, appears the most comprehen- 
sive j he shows more acuteness in his reflections and more sublimity of 
thought. Homer, who lived more with men, and had perhaps a deeper 



684 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Marsh-Caldwell. 

tincture of the human passions, is by far the most vehement and pic- 
turesque. To the view of Milton, the wide scenes of the universe seem 
to have been thrown open, which he regards with a cool and compre- 
hensive survey, little agitated, and superior to those emotions which 
affect inferior mortals. Homer, when he soars the highest, goes not 
beyond the bounds of human nature -, he still connects his descriptions 
with human passions ; and though his ideas have less sublimity, they 
have more fire. The appetite for greatness — that appetite which 
always grasps at more than it can reach, is never so fully satisfied as in 
the perusal of Paradise Lost. In following Milton, we grow familiar 
with new worlds, we traverse the immensities of space, wandering in 
amazement, and finding no bounds. Homer confines the mind to a 
narrower circle, but that circle he brings nearer the eye, he fills it with 
a quicker succession of objects, and makes it the scene of more in- 
teresting action. — The Amulet, 1829, p. 199. 



275.— HERNANA AND THE HAT. 

[Anne Marsh-Caldwell, 1799. 

[Mrs. Marsh-Caldwell is the daughter of the late James Caldwell, Esq., of Linley 
Wood, Staffordshire, Recorder of Newcastle-under-Line, and was born at her father's 
seat at the close of the last century. In 1834 she published her first work, "Two 
Old Men's Tales," which became popular. They were followed by " Tales of the 
Woods and the Fields," in 1836, and numerous other novels ; the most successful of 
which was, probably, "Emilia Wyndham." Mrs. Marsh-Caldwell has been one of the 
most productive as well as the most popular of our modern novelists. She married 
Arthur Cuthbert Marsh, Esq., of Willey House, near Farnham, Surrey, and at the 
death of her only brother in 1858, she entered into possession of her family inheri- 
tance of Linley Wood ; assuming at the same time the name and arms of Cald- 
well in addition to her husband's.] 

But now again she meditates upon her father's hat ; and the more 
she looks at it the shabbier she thinks it : in truth, she could not think 
it shabbier than it really was ; and she also remembers that Philip 
Gorhambury made game of it yesterday ; only yesterday. Her father 
must have a new hat. 

She was a privileged person. She might go into her father's little 
study whenever she would. If he were busy, or if he were melan- 
choly, he would gently send her out again ; but most often he took 
her upon his knee, and cheered his mind with a little prattling and 
joking before he let her go. So she made no scruple of opening his 
study door^ and there she found him with an open drawer before him. 
The drawer, in fact, was that in which he kept his money j which 
money (strange employment for him to be caught in !) he was count- 



Marsh-Caldwell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 685 

ing and recounting over and over. The treasure was made up of 
pieces but snciall in v^alue — shillings, sixpences, pence and halfpence. 
He sighed as he gathered the tiny heap in his hand -, and then 
shuffling it into the farther division of the drawer, he shut it, and 
looked up with — 

'''And what do you come for, my little girl?" 

She had the hat in her hand. 

" Papa, I am come to talk to you about your hat." 

"Well, child ! But you haven't brushed it, Hernana. You are a 
little sloven. I thought you would have made it quite spruce by this 
lime." 

" Mrs. Al worthy says it is not brushable." 

" Nonsense of Mrs. Alworthy. It looks bad, to be sure," said he, 
regarding it with a queer sort of smile j *'and how it is to last me 
six months longer, may be a question to be asked ; but it must do for 
the present, my love." 

" Oh, papa ! but Mrs. Alworthy, and Philip Gorhambury, and 
everybody, say it is so shabby." 

" I am sorry for that." 

" Philip says he should be quite ashamed if he was me, to walk 
out with such a hat." 

" Does he ? And does Mrs. Alworthy ?" 

" No ', she never said so 3 but Philip does, over and over." 

" And are you ashamed, Hernana ?" 

*' Why — why, no ; but," and the colour rose to her olive cheek, " I 
do wish you would buy a new hat. Do, dear papa, do." 

*'But if I have no money to buy one ?" 

''Dear papa 3 but you have some money. You were counting a 
great big heap of money, as big as this, when I came into the room." 

"But suppose I want the money for other things ?" 

" Oh ! but what other things ? Nothing shows so much as a hat. 
Philip says " 

" What does Philip say ?" 

"He says — oh, papa! it's so shocking — that people call you 
stingy ; and think you mean and a miser, for nobody else would 
dress so unlike a gentleman. That's what he says, papa ; and it 
makes me almost cry to hear him." 

"Come here, my little Hernana (for you look ready, at allevents, 
to cry now), and sit down upon your father's lap, and let us talk about 
it. Does my child say that everybody cries shame upon her father^ 
because he does not get himself a new hat ? And do they call it 
mean and miserly ? Was that it ? What is mean and miserly, little 
woman ? Do you know what those terms signify ?" 



686 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Marsh-Caldwell. 

" Something very horrid, I am sure ; and what everybody hates ; 
and what you are not, I am certain, papa 3 for everybody loves 
you." 

" That's very good of everybody, I am sure, when a man wears a 
shabby hat. I did not think there had been so much goodness in the 
world. So it's mean and miserly in me, is it, Hernana ?" 

" So they say -, and I can't bear to hear it. Do, pray, papa, get a 
new hat." 

" A mean person," Mr. Lovel went on, bending his beautiful 
serious eyes upon his daughter's face, ** is one who spares his money 
by taking unfair advantages of others 3 who endeavours to obtain 
services unrecompensed j and to discharge duties — the duties of 
hospitality, liberality, and generosity — by halves, in order to save 
the appearance, and spare the cost. Dost thou understand me, 
child?" 

** Yes, papa, I do." 

" A miser is one," Mr. Lovel continued, " who hoards his money 
for no purpose but to gratify the base desire of mere possession — the 
sin of covetousness. Now, Hernana, though it does not become a 
man to speak up for himself, this once I must do it. I am not mean, 
for the person on whom I spare is myself, not another : I am not 
miserly, for the money I save is not intended to be hoarded. Child, 
we are very poor people, you and I, and it is difficult for the poor to 
walk uprightly, and honourably, and liberally, and generously j and 
it is most especially difficult to avoid false shame. But, my dear, we 
must be all these things, and we must defy false shame, if we would 
acquit ourselves to God and to our own consciences. You understand 
me, I see you do," he went on j for the expressive eyes of the little 
girl showed that she did. *^ And now 1 will tell you why I have not, 
and why I cannot for a long time, have a hat. There is a man in 
this city who has fallen into great poverty by no fault of his own, and 
his children are crying for bread. He is not a beggar : he cannot 
take refuge in the workhouse with his children ; he would rather lie 
down and die than do that. He once, when my father was in diffi- 
culties, lent him money : I must now lend him money. What I 
have, he shall have. It would cost me a guinea to buy a new hat — 
half of all I can spare at present ; I choose to give it to this man, to 
buy bread for his children, Hernana ; and I will wear a shabby hat, 
call me mean and miserly who may. Shall you be ashamed to walk 
with me now, Hernana?" 

She made no answer j she still held the hat. Presently she began 
to press it to her bosom, and to cover it with kisses — with tears. She 
slid down from her father's knee, carrying the hat with her. Oh ! how 



1 



Rosc»e.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 687 

she and Mrs. Mworthy brushed and smoothed, and did the impossible to 
improve its appearance ! And they so far succeeded that when Mr. 
Lovel pat it upon his head, he declared that he did not know his own 
hat again ! — Castle Avon, vol. i. chap. x. 



276.— FLORENCE UNDER LORENZO DE' MEDICI. 

[William Roscoe, 1753 — 1831. 

[William Roscoe was the son of a market gardener near Liverpool. He was born 
near that town in 1753; was placed at first in a bookseller's shop, and afterwards 
articled to an attorney. During his term he studied Greek, Latin, French, and 
Italian, and also wrote some verses, some of which (on engraving) introduced him to 
Sir Joshua Reynolds. In 1796 he published his "Life of Lorenzo de' Medici," a 
work which at once took a foremost place in the literature of the day, and which 
was translated into French, German, and Italian. He next wrote " Illustrations 
Historical and Critical of the Life of Lorenzo de' Medici," and the " Life and 
Pontificate of Leo X." All of these works were admirable illustrations of Italian 
history, and have retained their place in our literature. He became a member of 
Parliament, and partner in a banking-house. In politics he was a Whig, and one 
of the advocates of the Abolition of the Slave Trade. He died 183 1.] 

At this period the city of Florence was at its highest degree of pros- 
perity. The vigilance of Lorenzo had secured it from all apprehensions 
of external attack ; and his acknowledged disinterestedness and mode- 
ration had almost extinguished that spirit of dissension for which it had 
been so long remarkable. The Florentines gloried in their illustrious 
citizen, and were gratified by numbering in their body, a man who 
wielded in his hands the fate of nationS;, and attracted the respect and 
admiration of all Europe. Though much inferior in population, extent 
of dominion, and military character, to several of the other states of 
Italy, Florence stood at this time in the first degree of respectability. 
The active spirit of its inhabitants, no longer engaged in hostile con- 
tentions, displayed itself in the pursuits of commerce and the improve- 
ment of their manufactures. Equally enterprising and acute, wherever 
there appeared a possibility of profit or of fame, they were the first to 
avail themselves of it ; and a Florentine adventurer, though with 
doubtful pretensions, has erected to himself a monument which the 
proudest conqueror might envy, and impressed his name upon a new 
world in characters that are now indelible.* The silk and linen fabrics 



* Amerigo Vespucci, who has contended with Columbus for the honour of the 
discovery of America, was born at Florence, in the year 145 1, of a respectable family, 
of which several individuals had enjoyed the chief offices of the republic. The name 
of Amerigo was at Florence a common name of baptism. For an account of the 
controversy that has taken place respecting the pretensions of these eminent navigators, 
I must refer to Dr. Robertson's " History of America," book ii. note 22, without, how- 



688 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Roscoe. 

manufactured by the Florentines, were in a great degree wrought from 
their native productions j but their wool was imported from England 
and from Spain, whose inhabitants indolently resigned their natural 
advantages, and purchased again at an extravagant price their own 
commodities. In almost every part to which the Florentines extended 
their trade, they were favoured with peculiar privileges, which enabled 
them to avail themselves of the riches they had already acquired ; and 
the superstitious prohibitions of the clergy against usury were of little 
avail against a traffic in which the rich found employment for their 
wealth, and the powerful, relief in their necessities. The consequence 
of these industrious exertions was a sudden increase of population in 
Florence; insomuch that Lorenzo was under the necessity of applying 
to the pope for his permission to build in the gardens of the mionasteries 
within the walls of the city. By his attention the police was also 
effectually reformed. A contemporary author assures us that there 
was no part of Italy where the people were more regular in their con- 
duct, or where atrocious crimes were less frequent.* " We have here," 
says he, " no robberies, no nocturnal commotions, no assassinations. 
By night or by day every person may transact his concerns in perfect 
safety. Spies and informers are here unknown. The accusation of 
one is not suffered to affect the safety of the many, for it is a maxim 
with Lorenzo, * that it is better to confide in all than in a few.' " 
From the same authority we learn that the due administration of jus- 
tice engaged his constant attention, and that he carefully avoided 
giving rise to an idea that he was himself above the control of the law. 
Where compulsory regulations lost their effect, the assiduity and ex- 
ample of Lorenzo produced the most salutary consequences, and 



ever, approving the severity of his animadversions on the respectable Canonico Bandini, 
who has endeavoured, from original and almost contemporary documents, to support 
the claims of his countryman. — Band. Vita di Amerigo Vesp. Flor. 1745. However 
this may be, it is certain, that about the year 1507, Vespucci resided at Seville, with 
the title of master pilot, and with authority to examine all other pilots; for which he 
had a salary assigned him ; an employment, as Tiraboschi well observes, suitable to a 
skilful navigator, but far below the pretensions of a man who had first discovered the 
new continent. This employment, however, afforded Vespucci an opportunity of ren- 
dering his name immortal. As he designed the charts for navigation, he uniformly 
denominated that continent by the name of America, which being adopted by other 
mariners and navigators, soon became general. — Tiraboschi, vi. par. i. p. 192, The 
memory of Vespucci is therefore now secured by a memorial, 

" Quod non imber edax non aquilo impotens 
Possit diruere, aut innumerabilis 
Annorum series, et fuga temporum." 

* Philippus Redditus Exhort, ad Pet. Med. Laur. fil. inter opusc. Joan. Lamif, 
Delic. Erudit. (Flor. 1742.) 



Roscoe.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 689 

banished that dissipation which enervates, and that indolence which 
palsies society. By forming institutions for the cultivation of the ancient 
languages, or the discassion'of philosophical truths, by promoting the 
sciences and encouraging the useful and ornamental arts, he stimulated 
talents into action, and excited an emulation which called forth all 
the powers of the mind. Even the public spectacles intended for the 
gratification of the multitude, partook of the polished character of the 
inhabitants, and were conceived with ingenuity and enlivened with 
wit. The prosperity and happiness which the citizens thus enjoyed 
were attributed to their true source, and Lorenzo received the best 
reward of his labours in the gratitude of his country. 

Beyond the limits of Tuscany, the character of this illustrious Floren- 
tine was yet more eminently conspicuous. The glory of the republic 
appeared at a distance to be concentred in himself. To him indi- 
vidually ambassadors were frequently despatched by the first monarchs 
of Europe, who, as their concerns required, alternately courted his as- 
sistance or solicited his advice.'* In the year 1489, when the Emperor 
Frederick III. sent an embassy to Rome^ he directed them to pass 
through Florence, to obtain the patronage of Lorenzo, being, as he 
said, convinced of his importance in directing the affairs of Italy. An 
interchange of kind offices subsisted between this eminent citizen and 
John II., King of Portugal, who was deservedly dignified with the 
appellation of Great, and was desirous that the transactions of his life 
should be recorded by the pen of Politiano.f From Matteo Corvino, 
whose virtues had raised him to the throne of Hungary, many letters 
addressed to Lorenzo are yet extant, which demonstrate not only the 
warm attachment of that monarch to the cause of science and the arts, 
but his esteem and veneration for the man whom he considered as 
their most zealous protector. As the reputation of Lorenzo increased, 
the assiduities of Louis XL of France became more conspicuous 3 and 
in exchange for professions of esteem, which from such a quarter could 
confer no honour, we find him soliciting from Lorenzo substantial 
favours. The commercial intercourse between Florence and Egypt, 
by means of which the Florentines carried on their lucrative traffic in 



* " It was a thing as admirable in itself, as remote from our manners, to see this 
citizen, who still carried on his commercial affairs, selling with one hand the mer- 
chandize of the Levant, and sustaining with the other the weight of the republic; re- 
ceiving factors, and giving audience to ambassadors ; resisting the pope, making war 
and peace; regarded as the oracle of princes, cultivating literature, exhibiting shows to 
the people, and entertaining all the learned Greeks of Constantinople. He equalled 
the great Cosmo in his benefit to society, and surpassed him in magnificence." — Volt. 
Essai, ii. 284. 

t Pol. Epist. X. i. ii. 
Y Y 



690 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Dufferin. 

the productions of the East, was extended and improved by Lorenzo j 
and such was the estimation in which he was held by the sultan, that 
in the year 1487 an ambassador arrived at Florence, bringing with 
him, as a mark of his master's esteem, many singular presents of rare 
animals and valuable commodities, amongst the former of which a 
giraffe principally attracted the curiosity of the populace. 

This epoch forms one of those scanty portions in the history of 
mankind, on which we may dwell without weeping over the calami- 
ties or blushing for the crimes of our species. Accordingly, the fancy 
of the poet, expanding in the gleam of prosperity, has celebrated these 
times as realizing the beautiful fiction of the golden age. This season 
of tranquillity is the interval to which Guicciardini so strikingly adverts 
in the commencement of his history, as being "prosperous beyond 
any other that Italy had experienced during the long course of a 
thousand years. When the whole extent of that fertile and beautiful 
country was cultivated, not onlv throughout its wide plains and fruit- 
ful valleys, but even amidst its most sterile and mountainous regions, 
and under no control but that of its native nobility and rulers, exulted, 
not only in the number and riches of its inhabitants, but in the mag- 
nificence of its princes, in the splendour of many superb and noble 
cities, and in the residence and majesty of religion itself. Abounding 
with men eminent in the administration of public affairs, skilled in 
every honourable science and every useful art, it stood high in the 
estimation of foreign nations. Which extraordinary felicity, acquired 
at many different opportunities, several circumstances contributed to 
preserve, but among the rest no small share of it was, by general con- 
sent, ascribed to the industry and the virtue of Lorenzo de' Medici ; a 
citizen who rose so far beyond the mediocrity of a private station, that 
he regulated by his counsels the affairs of Florence, then more impor- 
tant by its situation, by the genius of its inhabitants, and the prompti- 
tude of its resources, than by the extent of its dominions; and who 
having obtained the implicit confidence of the Roman pontiff. Inno- 
cent VIII., rendered his name great and his authority important in the 
affairs of Italy. — Life of Lorenzo de' Medici, chap. 6. 



277.— 'IHE LAPPS. 

[Lord Dcfferiv, 1826. 

[The Riebt Hon. Frederick T. Blackwood, Lord Dufferin, is the son of the late 
Lord Dufferin and S'-lina, dauf^hter of the late Thomas Sheridan. He was born 
1826, and was educated at Fton and Christ Church, Oxford. He succeeded to his 
tuber's title in 1841. In 1859 he made a yacht voyage to Iceland, an accjunt of 
which he published under the title of "Notes from High Latitudes." In i860 



Duflerin.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 691 

he was sent bj Lord Falmerston as British Commissionar m Svria, to inquire 
mto the dicamstances of the massacre of the Christians niiich had taken place 
there. He performed Ms duties with great jadgmenl^ and received as a reward 
fx his semoes die Order of the Bath.] 

It was io the streets of Hammerfest that I first set ejes on a Lap- 
lander. Turning round the corner of one of the ill-bu It houses we 
suddenly ran over a diminutire little personage, in a white woolten 
tunic, bordered with red and yellow stripes, green trousers, fastened 
round the ankles, and reindeer boots, curling up at the toes like 
Turkish shppers. On her head — for, notwithstanding the trousers, 
she turned out to be a lady — ^was perched a gay parti -coloured cap, 
fitting ciose round the face, and running up at the back into an over- 
arching peak of red cloth. Within this peak was crammed — as I 
atterwards learnt — ^a piece of hollow wood, weighing about a quarter 
of a pound, into which is fitted the wearer's back hair : so that 
perhaps, after all, there does exist a more inconvenient coiffiire than a 
Paris bonnet. Hardly had we taken off our hats, and bowed a thou- 
sand apologies for our unintentional rudeness to the fair inhabitant of 
the green trousers, before a couple of Lapp gentlemen hove in sight. 
They were dressed pretty much hke their companion, except that an 
ordinary red night -cap replaced the queer helmet worn by the lady ; 
and the knife and sporran fastened to their belts instead of being 
suspended in front, as hers were, hung down against their hips. 
Their tunics too may have been a trifle shorter. None of the three 
were beautiful. High cheek bones, short noses, obhque Mongol eyes, 
no eyelashes, and enormous mouths, composed a cast of features which 
their burnt sienna complexion, and hair — like ill got-in hay — did not 
much enhance. The expression of their countenances w as not unin- 
telligent 5 and there was a merry, half timid, half cunning twinkle in 
their eyes, which reminded me a little of faces I jad met in the 
more neglected districts of Ireland. Some ethnologists, indeed, are 
inclined to reckon the Laplanders as a branch of the Celtic family: 
others again maintain them to be Ugrians j while a few pretend to 
discover a relationship between the Lapp language and the dialects of 
the Australian savages, and similar outsiders of the human familv, 
alleging that as successive stocks bubbled up from the central birth- 
place of mankind in Asia, the earlier and inferior races were gradually 
driven outwards in concentric circles, like the rings produced by the 
throwing of a stone in a pond 3 and that consequently those w^ho 
dwell in the uttermost ends of the earth are ipso facto, hrst cousins. 

This relationship with the Polynesian niggers the native genealo- 
gists would probably scout with indignation, being perfectly persuaded 
of the extreme genlihty of their descent. Their only knowledge of 

Y Y 2 



m 



692 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Dufferiiii 

the patriarch Noah, is as a personage who derives his principal claim 
to notoriety from having been the first Lapp. Their acquaintance 
with any sacred history, nay, with Christianity at all, is very limited. 
It was not until after the thirteenth century that an attempt was made 
to convert them ; and though Charles IV. and Gustavus ordered por- 
tions of Scripture to be translated into Lappish, to this very day a 
great proportion of the race are Pagans 5 and even the most illumi- 
nated amongst them remain slaves to the grossest superstition. When 
a couple is to be married, if a priest happeris to be in the way they 
will send for him perhaps, out of complaisance • but otherwise the 
young lady's papa merely strikes a flint and steel together, and the 
ceremony is not the less irrevocably completed. When they die, a 
hatchet and a flint and steel are invariably buried with the defunct, in 
case he should feel himself chilly on his long journey — an unneces- 
sary precaution, many of the orthodox would consider, on the part of 
such lax religionists. When they go bear-hunting — the most impor- 
tant business of their lives — it is a sorcerer, with no other defence 
than his incantations, who marches at the head of the procession. In 
the internal arrangements of their tents it is not a room to themselves 
but a door to themselves that they assign to their womankind 3 for 
woe betide the hunter if a woman has crossed the threshold over 
which he sallies to the chase ; and for three days after the slaughter 
of his prey he must live apart from the female portion of his family, 
in order to appease the evil deity whose familiar he is supposed to 
have destroyed. It would be endless to recount the innumerable 
occasions upon which the ancient rites of Jumala are still interpolated 
among the Christian observances they profess to have adopted. 

Their manner of life I had scarcely any opportunity of observing. 
Our consul kindly undertook to take us up to one of their encamp- 
ments 5 but they flit so often from place to place, it is very difficult to 
light upon them. Here and there, as we cruised about among the fiords, 
the blue wreaths of smoke rising from some little green nook among 
the rocks would betray their temporary place of abode j but J never 
got a near view of a regular settlement. 

In the summer-time they live in canvas tents ; during winter, when 
the snow is on the ground, the forest Lapps build huts in the branches 
of trees, and so roost like birds. The principal tent is of an hexa- 
gonal form, with a fire in the centre, whose smoke rises through a 
hole in the roof. The gentlemen and ladies occupy different sides of 
the same apartment j but a long pole laid along the ground midway 
between them symbolizes an ideal partition, which I daresay is in 
the end as effectual a defence as lath and plaster prove in more civi- 
lized countries. At all events, the ladies have a doorway quite to 



Karr.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 693 

themselves, which doubtless they consider a far greater privilege 
than the seclasion of a separate boudoir. Hunting and fishing are 
the principal employments of the Lapp tribes ; and to slay a bear is 
the most honourable exploit a Lapp hero can achieve. The flesh of 
the slaughtered beast becomes the property — not of the man who 
killed him, but of him who discovered his trail ; and the skin is hung 
up on a pole for the wiv^es of all who took part in the expedition to 
shoot at with their eyes bandaged. Fortunate is she whose arrow 
pierces the trophy, — not only does it become her prize, but in the 
eyes of the whole settlement her husband is looked upon thencefor- 
ward as the most fortunate of men. As long as the chase is going 
on, the women are not allowed to stir abroad j but as soon as the 
party have safely brought home their booty, the whole female popu- 
lation issues from the tents, and having deliberately chewed some bark 
of a species of alder, they spit the red juice into their husbands' faces, 
typifying thereby the bear's blood which has been shed in the honour- 
able encounter. — Letters from High Latitudes, Letter x. 



27S.— THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 

[Jean Baptiste Alphonse Karr, 1808. 
[Jean Baptiste Alphonse Karr was bom at Paris, 1808. He received his early edu- 
cation from his fetJier; later he was a pupil of the College Bourbon, where he 
afterwards became a teacher. A copy of verses in Figaro introduced him to the 
literary world of Paris. " Sous les Tilleuls," a novel, established him as a popular 
author. He has written many novels, " Une Heure trop tard," " Genevieve," 
&c., &:c., but he is best known to the British public by his "Tour Round my 
Garden." In 1839, ^^- Karr became editor in chief of the Figaro, and in the 
same year commenced Les Guepes, a monthly satirical journal. Alphonse Karr 
writes occasionally for the " Revue des deux iVIondes," and other periodicals, and 
is extremely popular both in private and public life.] 

There are times when the flowers languish with heat ; there are 
times when one only hears among the parched herbs the monotonous 
cry of the grasshopper, when one sees nothing stirring abroad but the 
lizards. The nights are cool, sweet, and fragrant 3 the flowering trees 
are filled with nightingales, exhaling perfumes and celestial melody; 
and the grass is brilliant with the glowworms gliding about witli tlieir 
violet flames. 

You will in tliis manner describe to me some far-off country, /will 
thus delineate what my garden atfords. The seasons, as they pass 
away, are climates which travel round the globe, and come to seek me. 
Your long voyages are nothing but fatiguing visits, which you go to 
pay to the seasons which would themselves have come to you. 

But there is still another laud, a delightful country, which would in 



694 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Karr. 

vain be sought for on the waves of the sea, or across the lofty moun- 
tains. In that country the flowers not only exhale sweet perfumes, 
but intoxicating thoughts of love. There every tree, every plant 
breathes, in a language more noble than poetry, and more sweet than 
music, things of which no human tongue can give an idea. The sand 
of the roads is gold and precious stones, the air is filled with songs, 
compared to which those of the nightingales and thrushes, which I 
now listen to, are no better than the croaking of frogs in their reedy 
marshes. Man in that land is good, great, noble, and generous. 

There all things are the reverse of those which- we see every day j 
all the treasures of the earth, all dignities crowded together, would be 
but objects of ridicule if there offered in exchange for a faded flower, 
or an old glove, left in a honeysuckle arbour. But why do I talk 
about honeysuckles ? Why I am forced to give the names of flowers 
you know to the flowers of these charming regions. In this country 
no one believes in the existence of perfidy, inconstancy, old age, death, 
or forgetfulness, which is the death of the heart. Man there requires 
neither sleep nor food ; an old wooden bench is there a thousand times 
more soft than eider-down elsewhere ; slumbers are there more calm 
and delicious, constantly attended by blissful dreams. The sour sloe of 
the hedges, the insipid fruit of the bramble, there acquire a flavour so 
delicious that it would be absurd to compare them to the pine-apple of 
other regions. Life is there more mildly happy than dreams can 
aspire to be in other countries. Go, then, and seek these poetic isles ! 

Alas! in reality it was but a p -or little garden, in a mean suburb, 
when I was eighteen, in love, and when ske would steal thither for an 
instant at sunset ! 

So loved I a little shut-up garden. 

After all, is this life anything but a terrible journey without repose, 
and with but one common end in view ? Is it anything more than 
arriving successively at various ages, and taking or leaving something 
at each r Does not all that surrounds us change every year ? Is not 
every age a different country? You were a child j you are a young 
man J you may become an old man. Do you believe you shall find 
as much difference between two persons, however remote from each 
other they may be, as between you a child and you an old man ? 

You are in childhood ; — the man is therewith his fair hair, his bold, 
limpid glance, and his light and joyous heart j he loves every one, and 
every one seems to love him ; everything gives him something, and 
everything promises him still much more. There is nothing which 
does not pay him a tribute of joy, nothing which for him is not a 
plaything. The butterflies in the air, the bluebottles in the corn-fields, 
the sand of the sea-shore, the herbage of the meadows, the green alleys 



Karr.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 695 

of the forest — all give him pleasure, all whisper to him promises of 
mystic happiness. 

You arrive at youth ; the body is active and strong, the heart noble 
and disinterested. There, you violently break the playthings of your 
childhood, and smile at the importance you once attached to them be- 
cause you have found some fresh playthings, with which you are as 
much in earnest as you were with your tops and balls 5 now is the 
turn of friendship, love, heroism, and devotedness, — you have all these 
within you, and you look for them in others. But these are flowers 
that fade, and do not flourish at the same time in every heart. With 
this one, they are only in bud -, with that they have long since passed 
away. You ask aloud the accomplishment of your desires, as you 
would ask holy promises. There is not a flower or a tree that does not 
appear to have betrayed you. 

But here we now are, arrived at old age ; w^e then have grey or 
white hairs — or a wig. The beautiful flowers of which we were 
speaking yield fruit but little expected, — incredulity, egotism, mistrust, 
avarice, irony, gluttony. You laugh at the playthings of your youth, 
because you still meet with others to which you attach yourself more 
seriously, places, medals, ribbons of different orders, honours, and 
dignities. 

'* It nothing boots that man, by doom, grows old. 
He gains each stage, still ignorant and new; — 
On our last winters, on our age extinct. 
Wisdom bestows but pale and sickly light. 
Like the fair moon's whose mild and opal rays 
Fall on night's hours, when nothing more is done." 

Days and years are darts which Death launches at us ; it reserves the 
most penetrating for old age ; the early ones have destroyed succes- 
sively your faitlis, your passions, your virtues, your happiness. Now 
it pours in grape-shot ! — it has shot away your hair, and your teeth, it 
has wounded and weakened your muscles, it has touched your me- 
mory, it aims at the heart, it aims at life. Then everything becomes 
your enemy : in youth, the beautiful nights of summer brought you 
perfumes, remembrances, and delicious reveries 5 they yield you 
nothing now but coughs, rheumatism, and pleurisies. 

You hate those who are younger than yourself, because they will 
inherit your money j they are already the heirs of your youth, your 
hopes, your visions, of all which is already dead in you — 

" Few men the secret learn of growing old; 
Like certain fruits, they rot, but ripen not.** 

Tell me, are we to-day that which we were yesterday, or shall be 



696 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Ingelow. 



to-morrow ? Have we not cause to make singular observations upon 
ourselves daily ? Do we not present a curious spectacle to ourselves ? 
Well, I will decide to commence my journey to-morrow, or perhaps 
I shall finish by finding that it is too great an exertion, even to make 
the tour of one's garden. — Tour Round my Garden, Letter iii. 



279.— THE HIGH TIDE. 

(on the coast of LINCOLNSHIRE, I57I.) 



[Jean Ingelow. 



[The name of Miss Jean Ingelow will doubtless be new to many of our readers, but 
she is a popular poetess notwithstanding, her poems having now reached a ninth 
edition. She is a worthy follower of Mrs. E. B. Browning, on whom she appears 
to have founded her st>le, and writes very conscieniiously; her subjects are \crY 
well chosen, and her thoughts original.] 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower. 

The ringers ran by two, by three 3 
** Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he: 
*' Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 

Play all your changes, all your swells. 
Play uppe *The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it. He knows all ,• 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was nought of strange, beside 

The flights of mews and peewits pied 

By millions crouched on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore. 

My thread brake off, I rais-ed myne eyes j 

The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandereth. 

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

**Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling. 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
*' Cusha ! Cusha !" all along ^ 



Ingelow.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 693 

Where the reedy Lindis fioweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling : 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow 3 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow 3 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot 3 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
From the clovers lift your head 3 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago. 

When I beginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 

Swift as an arrow, sharpe and strong; 
And all the aire, it seemeth mee. 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee). 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

AUe fresh the level pasture lay. 

And not a shadowe mote be scene. 
Save where full fyve good miles away 

The steeple towered from out the greene; 
And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 
Was heard in all the country side 
That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 

Moved on in sunset's golden breath. 
The shepherde lads I heard afarre. 

And my Sonne's wife, Ehzabeth3 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message free. 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky. 
And all along where Lindis flows 



698 



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[Ingelow. 



To where the goodly vessels lie. 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 
They sayde, " And why should this thing be ? 
What danger lowers by land or sea ? 
They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of pyrate galleys warping down j 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe. 

They have not spared to wake the towne ; 
But while the west bin red to see. 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee. 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby' ? " 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main : 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Ehzabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath. 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe. 

The rising tide comes on apace. 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death • 
" God save you, mother!" straight he saith j 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?" 

*' Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away, 
With her two bairns I marked her long 5 



And ere yon bells beganne to play 
Afar I heard her milking song." 
He looked across the grassy lea. 
To right, to left, " Ho Enderby !" 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby !" 

With that he cried and beat his breast 3 
For, lo ! along the river's bed 

A mighty eygre reared his crest. 
And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 

It swept with thunderous noises loud ; 

Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. 

Or like a demon in a shroud. 



Ingelow.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 699 

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed. 
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine j 

Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 

Then beaten foam flew round about — 

Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 

The heart had hardly time to beat. 
Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at cure feet: 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee. 
And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night. 

The noise of bells went sweeping by j 
I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high — 
A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
And awsome bells they were to mee. 
That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed j 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet tlie ruddy beacon glowed: 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

" come in hfe, or come in death 1 

O 1 :)S t ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore. 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace. 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea j 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee ; 



700 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Horsley. 



But each will mourn his own (she saith). 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife^ Elizabeth. 

— Poems. 



280.— THE NEW COMMANDMENT. 

[Bishop Horsley, 1733 — 1806. 

[Samuel Horsley was born in 1733. He was the son of the Rector of Newington, 
and was educated at Westminster School and Trinity Hall. Cambridge. He took 
Holy Orders in 1759, and became Rector of Newington on the resignation of his 
father. He was elected Fellow of the Royal Society 1767, and became secretary to 
it in 1773. In 1781 he entered into controversy with Dr. Joseph Priestley, combat- 
ing his doctrines of Materialism and Unitarianism. In 1788 he was ordained 
Bishop of St. David's, and displayed in parliament great political ability. He sup- 
ported Mr. Pitt, and was made successively Bishop of Rochester and Bishop of St. 
Asaph. He published a large number of theological works, and died in 1806.J 

In that memorable night, when divine love and infernal malice had 
each their perfect work, — the night when Jesus was betrayed into the 
hands of those who thirsted for his blood, and the mysterious scheme 
of man's redemption was brought to its accomplishment, Jesus, hav- 
ing finished the Paschal supper, and instituted those holy mysteries by 
which the thankful remembrance of his oblation of himself is con- 
tinued in the church until his second coming, and the believer is 
nourished with the food of everlasting life, the body and blood of the 
crucified Redeemer 3 — when ail this was finished, and nothing now 
remained of his great and painful undertaking, but the last trying part 
of it, to be led like a sheep to the slaughter, and to make his life a 
sacrifice for sin, — in that trying hour, just before he retired to the 
garden, where the power of darkness was to be permitted to display 
on him its last and utmost eflbrt, Jesus gave it solemnly in charge to 
the eleven apostles (the twelfth, the son of perdition, was already 
lost ; he was gone to hasten the execution of his intended treason), 
— to the eleven, whose loyalty remained as yet unshaken, Jesus in 
that awful hour gave it solemnly in charge, *' to love one another, as 
he had loved them." And because the perverse wit of man is ever 
fertile in plausible evasions of the plainest duties, — lest this command 
should be interpreted, in after ages, as an injunction in which the 
apostles only were concerned, imposed upon them in their peculiar 
character of the governors of the church, our great Master, to obviate 
any such wiitul misconstruction of his dying charge, declared it to be 
his pleasure ai:d his meaning, that the exercise of mutual Jove, in all 
age.s, and in all nations, among men of all ranks, callings, and condi- 
tions, should be the general badge and distinction of his disciples. 



Horsley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 701 

'' By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye love one 
another." And this Injunction of loving one another as he had 
loved them, he calls a new commandment : " A new commandment 
I give unto you, that ye love one another." 

It is commonly said, and sometimes strenuously insisted, as 3 cir- 
cumstance in which the ethic of all religions falls short of the Chris- 
tian, that the precept of universal benevolence, embracing all man- 
kind, without distinction of party, sect, or nation, had never been 
heard of till it was inculcated by our Saviour. But this is a mistake. 
Were it not that experience and observation afford daily proof how 
easily a sound judgment is misled by the exuberance even of an 
honest zeal, we should be apt to say that this could be maintained by 
none who had ever read the Old Testament. The obligation indeed 
upon Christians, to make the avowed enemies of Christianity the 
objects of their prayers and of their love, arises out of the peculiar 
nature of Christianity, considered as the work of reconciliation. Our 
Saviour too was the first who showed to what extent the specific 
duty of mutual forgiveness is included in the general command of 
mutual love ; but the command itself, in its full extent, "That every 
man should love his neighbour as himself," we shall find, if we con- 
sult the Old Testament, to be just as old as any part of the rehgion 
of the Jews. The two maxims to which our Saviour refers the 
whole of the law and the prophets, were maxims of the Mosaic law 
itself. Had it indeed been otherwise, our Saviour, when he alleged 
these maxims in answer to the lawyer's question, '* Which is the 
chief commandment of the law ?" would not have answered with 
that wonderful precision and discernment which on so many occasions 
put his adversaries to shame and silence. 

Indeed, had these maxims not been found in the law of Moses, it 
would still have been true of them that they contain everything 
which can be required of man, as matter of general, indispensable 
duty ; insomuch that nothing can become an act of duty to God or 
to our neighbour, otherwise than as it is capable of being referred to 
the one or the other of these two general topics. They might be 
said therefore to be, in the nature of the thing, the supreme and 
chief of all commandments j being those to which all others are 
naturally and necessarily subordinate, and in which all others are con- 
tained as parts in the whole. All this would have been true, though 
neither of these maxims had had a place in the law of Moses. But 
it would not have been a pertinent answer to the lawyer's question, 
nor would it have taken the efiect whic*h our Lord's answer actually 
took, with the subtle disputants with whom he was engaged, " that 
no man durst ask him any more questions." The lawyer's question 



702 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Horsley. 

was not, what thing might, in its own nature, be the best to be com- 
manded. To this indeed it might have been wisely answered, that 
the love of God is the best of all things, and that the next best is the 
love of man ; although Moses had not expressly mentioned either. 
But the question was, " Which is the great commandment in the 
law ?" — that is, in Moses's lawj for the expression "the law," in the 
mouth of a Jew, could carry no other meaning. To this it had been 
vain to allege "the love of God or man," had there been no express 
requisition of them in the jaw% notwithstanding the confessed natural 
excellence of the things j because the question was not about natural 
excellence, but what was to be reckoned the first in authority and 
importance among the written commandments. Those masters of 
sophistry with whom our Saviour had been for some hours engaged, 
felt themselves overcome when he produced from the books of the 
law two maxims which, forming a complete and simple summary of 
the whole — and not only of the whole of the Mosaic law, but of 
every law which God ever did or ever will prescribe to man — 
evidently claimed to be the first and chief commandments. The first 
enjoining the love of God, is to be found in the very words in which our 
Saviour recited it, in the sixth chapter of Deuteronomy, at the fifth 
verse. The second, enj(;ining the love of our neighbour, is to be 
found in the very words in which our Saviour recited it, in the nine- 
teenth chapter of Leviticus, at the eighteenth verse. 

The injunction therefore of conformity to his own example, is 
that which is chiefly new in the commandment of our Lord. As it 
is in this circumstance that the commandment is properly his, it is by 
nothing less than the conformity enjoined, or an assiduous endeavour 
after that conformity, that his commandment is fulfilled. 

The perfection of Christ's example it is easier to understand than 
to imitate j and yet it is not to be understood without serious and deep 
meditation on the particulars of his history. Pure and disinterested in 
its motives, the love of Christ had solely for its end the happiness of 
those who were the objects of it. An equal sharer with the Almighty 
Father in the happiness and glory of the Godhead, the Redeemer had 
no proper ifiterest in the late of fallen man. Infinite in its compre- 
hension, his love embraced his enemies j intense in its energy, it in- 
cited him to assume a frail and mortal nature — to undergo contempt 
and death J constant in its operations, in the paroxysm of an agony, 
the sharpest the human mind was ever known to sustain, it main- 
tained its vigour unimpaired. In the whole business of man's 
redemption, wonderiul in all its parts, in its beginning, its progress^ 
and completion, the most wonderful part of all is the character of 
Christ — a character not exempt from those feelings of the soul and 
infirmities of the body which render man obnoxious to temptation, 



Horsley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 703 

but in which the two principles of piety to God, and goodwill to man, 
maintained such an ascendancy over all the rest, that they might 
seem by themselves to make the whole. This character, in which 
piety and benevolence, upon all occasions, and in all circumstances, 
overpowered all the inferior passions, is more incomprehensible to the 
natural reason of the carnal man than the deepest mysteries, — more 
improbable than the greatest miracles, — of all the particulars of the 
gospel history, the most trying to the evil heart of unbelief, — the very 
last thing, I am persuaded, that a ripened faith receives 5 but of all 
things the most important and the most necessary to be well under- 
stood and firmly believed, — the most efficacious for the softening of 
the sinner's heart, for quelling the pride of human wisdom, and for 
bringing every thought and imagination of the soul into subjection to 
the righteousness of God. " Let this mind," says the apostle, " be 
in you, which was also in Christ Jesus 5" — that mind which incited 
him, when he considered the holiness of God and the guilt and cor- 
ruption of fallen man, to say, ''I come to do thy will, O God !" — 
that is, according to the same apostle's interpretation, to do that will 
by which we are sanctified, to make the satisfaction for the sinful 
race which divine justice demanded. Being in the form of God, he 
made himself of no reputation ; he divested himself of that external 
form of glory in which he had been accustomed to appear to the 
patriarchs in the first ages, in which he appeared to Moses in the 
bush, and to his chosen servants in later periods of the Jewish history, 
• — that form of glory in which his presence was manifested between 
the cherubim in the Jewish sanctuary. He made himself of no 
reputation, and, uniting himself to the holy fruit of Mary's womb, he 
took upon him the form of a slave — of that fallen creature who had 
sold himself into the bondage of Satan, sin, and death 3 and, being 
found in fashion as a man he humbled himself, — he submitted to the 
condition of a man in its most humiliating circumstances, and carried 
his obedience unto death — the death even of the cross — the painful 
ignominious death of a malefactor, by a public execution. He who 
shall one day judge the world suffered himself to be produced as a 
criminal at Pilate's tribunal 3 he submitted to the sentence which the 
dastardly judge who pronounced it confessed to be unjust : the Lord 
of glory suffered himself to be made the jest of Herod and his cap- 
tains : he who could have summoned twelve legions of angels to form 
a flaming guard around his person, or have called down fire from 
Heaven on the guilty city of Jerusalem, on his false accusers, his un- 
righteous judge, the executioners, and the insulting rabble, — made no 
resistance when his body was fastened to the cross by the Roman 
soldiers, — endured the reproaches of the chief priests and rulers, 
the taunts and revilings of the Jewish populace 3 and this not from 



704 THE EVERY- DAY BOOK [Horsley. 

any consternation arising from his bodily sufferings^ which might be 
supposed for the moment to deprive him of the knowledge of him- 
self. He possessed himself to the last. In the height of his agonies, 
with a magnanimity not less extraordinary than his patient endurance 
of pain and contumely, he accepted the homage, which, in that situa- 
tion, was offered to him as the king of Israel, and in the highest tone 
of confident authority, promised to conduct the penitent companion of 
his sufferings that very day to Paradise. What, then, was the motive 
which restrained the Lord of might and glory, that he put not forth 
his power for the deliverance of himself and the destruction of his 
enemies ? Evidently that which he avows upon his coming first into the 
world : " I come to do thy will, O God !" and by doing of that will, 
to rescue man from wTath and punishment. Such is the example of 
resignation to God's will — of indifference to things temporal — of 
humility and of love, we are called upon to imitate. 

The sense of our inability to attain to the perfection of Christ's 
example, is a reason for much humility, and for much mutual for- 
bearance, but no excuse lor the wilful neglect of his command. It 
may seem that it is of little consequence to inculcate virtues which 
can be but seldom practised 3 and a general and active benevolence, 
embracing all mankind, and embracing persecution and death, may 
appear to come under this description : it may seem a virtue propor- 
tioned to the abilities of few, and inculcated on mankind in general 
to little purpose. But, though it may be given to few to make them- 
selves conspicuous as benefactors of mankind, by such actions as are 
usually called great, because the effect of them on the welfare of 
various descriptions of the human race is immediate and notorious, 
the principle of religious philanthropy, influencing the whole con- 
duct of a private man, in the lowest situations of life, is of much 
more universal benefit than is first perceived. The terror of the laws 
may restrain men from flagrant crimes, but it is this principle alone 
that can make any man a useful member of society. This restrains 
him, not only from those violent invasions of another's right which 
are punished by human laws, but it overrules the passions from which 
those enormities proceed j and the secret effects of it, were it but once 
universal, would be more beneficial to human life than the most 
brilliant actions of those have ever been to whom blind superstition 
has erected statues and devoted altars. As this principle is that which 
makes a man the most useful to others, so it is that alone which makes 
the character of the individual amiable in itself, — amiable not only in 
the judgment of man, but in the sight of God, and in the truth of 
things ; for God himself is love, and the perfections of God are the 
standard of all perfection. — Sermons. Sermon xi. 



Smith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 705 



281.— THE LIBRARY. 

[Horace Smith, 1780 — 1849. 

[Horace Smith was the younger of the two brothers, James and Horace Smith, born 
respectively 1775 and 1780. Their first effusions were contributed to the "Picnic," 
a periodical established in 1802, and some of their best articles appeared in the "New 
Monthly Magazine," under its first editorship, that of Thomas Campbell. In 18 12 
the work appeared with which their names will always be associated. The committee 
of Drury Lane Theatre offered a prize for the best address to be spoken at the opening 
of that edifice; they failed to obtain one to their taste. Lord Byron was therefore 
applied to, and he supplied the one which was spoken. The Smiths then brought 
out their work which purported to be " The Rejected Addresses" in which the va- 
rious styles of the then popular writers were imitated with mari'^ellous fidelity. 
Twenty-two editions were subsequently sold. James appears to have written no 
longer, but Horace became a hard-working and successful literary labourer. His 
" Brambletye House " almost equals in merit many of Scott's novels. He died in 
1849, surviving his brother ten years. His poetical works, in 2 vols., were published 
by Colburn.] 

What laborious days, what watchings by the midnight lamp, what 
rackings of the brain, what hopes and fears, what long lives of labo- 
rious study are here sublimized into print, and condensed into the 
narrow compass of these surrounding shelves ! What an epitome of 
the past world, and how capricious the fate by which some of therti 
have been preserved, while others of greater value have perished ! 
■X- -x- * * * * * 

Some of the richest treasures of antiquity have been redeemed from 
the dust and cobwebs of monastical libraries, lumber-rooms, sacristies, 
and cellars j others have been excavated in iron chests, or disinterred 
from beneath ponderous tomes of controversial divinity, or copied from 
the backs of homilies and sermons, with which, in the scarcity of 
parchment, they had been over-written. If some of our multitudinous 
writers would compile a circumstantial account of the resurrection of 
every classical author, and a minute narrative of the discovery of every 
celebrated piece of ancient sculpture, what an interesting volume might 
be formed ! 

Numerous as they are, what are the books preserved in comparison 
with those that we have lost ? The dead races of mankind scarcely 
outnumber the existing generation more prodigiously than do the 
books that have perished exceed those that remain to us. Men are 
naturally scribblers, and there has probably prevailed, in all ages since 
the invention of letters, a much more extensive literature than is 
dreamed of in our philosophy. Osymandias, the ancient King of 
Egypt, if Herodotus may be credited, built a library in his palace, over 
the door of which was the well known inscription, "Physic for the 
soul." Job wishes that his adversary had written a book, probably for 
the consolation of cutting it up in some Quarterly or Jerusalem Review 5 

z z 



7o6 THE EKERY-DAY BOOK [Smith. 

the expression, at all events, indicates a ^eater activity " in the Row" 
than we are apt to ascribe to those primitive times. Allusion is also 
made in the Scriptures to the librar}^ of the Kings of Persia, as well as 
to one built by Nehemiah. Ptolemy Philadelphus had a collection of 
700,000 volumes destroyed by Caesar's soldiers j and the Alexandrian 
Library, burned by the Caliph Omar, contained 400,000 manuscripts. 
What a combustion of congregated brains ! — the quintessence of ages 
— the wisdom of a world — all simultaneously converted into smoke and 
ashes ! This, as Cowley would have said, is to put out the lire of 
genius by that of the torch ; to extinguish the light of reason in that 
of its own funeral pyre; to make matter once more triumph over 
mind. Possibly, however, onr loss is rather imaginary than real, 
greater in quantit}'- than in quality. Men's intellects, like their frames, 
continue pretty much the same in all ages, and the human faculty, 
limited in its sphere of action, and operating always upon the same 
materials, soon arrives at an impassable acme which leaves us nothing 
to do but to ring the changes upon antiquity. Half our epic poems 
are modifications of Homer, though none are equal to that primitive 
model 3 our Ovidian elegies, our Pindarics, and our Anacreontics, all 
resemble their first parents in features as well as in name. Fertilizing 
our minds with the brains of our predecessors, we raise new crops of 
the old grain, and pass away to manure the intellectual field for future 
harvests of the same description. Destruction and reproduction make the 
system of the moral as well as of the physical world. 

An anonymous book loses half its interest -, it is the voice of the in- 
visible, an echo from the clouds, the shadow of an unknown substance, 
an abstraction devoid of all humanity. One likes to hunt out an 
author, if he be dead, in obituaries and biographical dictionaries ; to 
chase him from his birth ; to be in at his death, and learn what other 
offspring of his brain survive him. Even an assumed name is better 
than none, though it is clearly a nominal fraud, a desertion from our 
own to enlist into another identity. It may be doubted whether we 
have any natural right thus to leap down the throat, as it were, of an 
imaginary personage, and pass off' a counterfeit of our own creation for 
genuine coinage. But the strongest semi-vitality, or zoophyte state of 
existence, is that of the writers of Ephemerides, who squeeze the whole 
bulk of their individuality into the narrow compass of a single conso- 
nant or vowel ; who have an alphabious being as Air. A., a liquid 
celebrity under the initial of L., or attain an immortality of zigzag 
under the signature of Z. How fantastical to be personally known as 
an impersonal, to be literally a man of letters, to have all our virtues 
and talents entrusted to one httle hieroglyphic, like the bottles in the 
apothecary's shop. 



OF MOBEWN LFTERJTURE. 



;:;-.::::r i literary individnalily somewhat more snb- 

r.:.-::.:— creation j when one is known, propria 

1- ;. rntical Tomkins, who writes in a popular mag-a- 

. : ^rir-e ?f anr specific Letter, to what does it amount } 

::' 1 -::nth, after which we are tranquilly left to 

— CI cuiLTion. Our very nature is ephemeral : we 

:ws, so depart." From, time to time some benevolent 

::z:nLler endeavours to pluck us from the Lethean 

1,- -ur best papers under the captivating title of 

■ -:.-::: i- ' "'Spirit of the Modem Essayists," or 

.:-i :: r " : : i ; . but alas ! like a swimmer in the 

iiiciTLpcs CO uphold his sinking- comrade, he can but 

moments' respite, when both sink together m the 

L, — Tk&Ciasqm&t, vol. if. 



aSa.— COMMODORE TRUNNION'S RIDE. 

[Tobias Smollett, 1721 — 1771- 

g^SKOEtETT W3S bortt ss^x ife xttlige of Renton, Dumbartonshire, in 1721. His 
feiier, 3. youxLger son «rf Sf Jsmss, SmoLLett. having- died young, he -was educated at 
flisc €EE5£ «jf fe gTE aiMMBfaBlmt in. the Grammar School of Dum.barton, and at the 
PiiwaMB By of Oasgiwr. IBs education complete, Tobias was apprenticed to a 
ii iiBiinill ^msBlBimmsx n Glasgow, but his grandather dying without having made an7 
fwwtihua m fcr hmma, fee piraceeded to London to try his luck as a professional author. 
Affl ifle IhMKigM wifife Mm -r^ns 1 fe^^r light packages of personal baggage, and a heavy 
tragecEf , crfBed "TliieRe'r \^. As might be expected, his juvenile contribution 
w^ rqecrfta^ anod tiie triz \ ; -it brought out; so he went aboard an eighty- 
gBB 9^p^ and seivei as siirgccn i raate. Failing to obtain promotion in the navy, 
hclefetihcseanraoeaiBid Beaded some time in the West Indies, but returned to England 
m. iy4|,_amd resumed rhe t^ctice of medicine. In 174S his novel of " Roderick 
~ ~ — ,- . - - -_^^ xhax. he made no progress in the profession of 

" t '- • :ook a house in Chelsea, and henceforth devoted his 

- ' Roderick Random*'' was well timed; the public had 
T riled in Fielding; appetite grew on what it ted, and 

'r_ liis early days Smollett married a young West 
; : - ; I :dughter, who died at the age of fifteen. Dis- 
:; .. 7 ■ ■ ;r :-' 7-ir.re ind Italy, and was absent from 

- T :' his tour, which was an odd 
rr.._L.--r \--- - -atirize this work that Sterne 
wtQte: hia '* r : _ - t ^ight of now, or, more gene- 
niljF, naffikmc blame him for the very foible 
feefasM rap : 7 :::ci -.-...■..„ -v ^^ .nowed by "Peregrine Pickle," 
*Goamlt Far_- -1 ::,oc Greaves,'' and " Humphrey Clinker;'' and during 
tfie com::os • •. -. ?—oLlett also wrote his " Continuation of Hume's 

y. ■■ "1 - "idoo o€ " Does Quixote,' ' besides editing a paper, 

r : J ... ai Tie S^Mrtk Britoa. Like bis contemporary, 

X z a 




7o8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Smollett. 

Fielding, he went abroad in quest of health, and died, near Leghorn, October 21, 
1 77 1, aged fifty-one.] 

The fame of this extraordinary conjunction* spread all over the 
county ; and on the day appointed for their spousals, the church was 
surrounded by an inconceivable multitude. The commodore, to give 
a specimen of his gallantry, by the advice of his friend Hatchv^^ay, re- 
solved to appear on horseback on the grand occasion at the head of all 
his male attendants, whom he had rigged with the white shirts and 
black caps formerly belonging to his barge's crew 3 and he bought a 
couple of hunters for the accommodation of himself and his lieu- 
tenant. With this equipage then he set out from the garrison for 
church, after having despatched a messenger to apprise the bride that 
he and his company were mounted. 

She got immediately into the coach, accompanied by her brother 
and his wife, and drove directly to the place of assignation, where 
several pews were demolished, and divers persons almost pressed to 
death by the eagerness of the crowd that broke in to see the ceremony 
performed. Thus arrived at the altar, and the priest in attendance, 
they waited a whole half-hour for the commodore, at whose slowness 
they began to be under some apprehension, and accordingly dismissed 
a servant to quicken his pace. The valet having rode something more 
than a mile, espied the whole troop disposed in a long field, crossing 
the road obliquely, and headed by the bridegroom and his friend 
Hatchway, who, finding himself hindered by a hedge from proceed- 
ing further in the same direction, fired a pistol, and stood over to the 
other side, making an obtuse angle with the line of his former course 3 
and the rest of the squadron followed his example, keeping always 
in the rear of each other like a flight of wild geese. 

Surprised at this strange method of journeying, the messenger came 
up, and told the commodore that his lady and her company expected 
him in the church, where they had tarried a considerable time, and 
were beginning to be very uneasy at his delay j and therefore desired 
he would proceed with more expedition. To this message Mr. Trunnion 
replied, " Hark ye, brother, don't you see we make all possible speed ? 
Go back, and tell those who sent you that the wind has shifted since 
we weighed anchor, and that we are obliged to make very short trips 
in tacking, by reason of the narrowness of the channel j and that as 
we lie within six points of the wind, they must make some allowance 
for variation and leeway." " Lord, sir!" said the valet, *'what occa- 
sion have you to go zigzag in that manner ? Do but clap spurs to 
your horses, and ride straight forward, and I'll engage you shall be at 



* The marriage of the Commodore and Mrs. Grizzle, 



Smollett.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 709 

the church-porch in less than a quarter of an hour." " What ! right 
in the wind's eye ?" answered the commander j *^ ahoy ! brother, where 
did you learn your navigation ? Hawser Trunnion is not to be taught 
at this time of day how to lie his course, or keep his own reckoning. 
And as for you, brother, you best know the trim of your own frigate." 
The courier finding he had to do with people who would not be easily 
persuaded out of their own opinions, returned to the temple, and made 
a report of what he had seen and heard, to the no small consolation of 
the bride, who had just begun to discover some signs of disquiet. 
Composed, however, by this piece of intelHgence, she exerted her 
patience for the space of another half-hour, during which period, see- 
ing no bridegroom arrive, she was exceedingly alarmed ; so that all 
the spectators could easily perceive her perturbation, which manifested 
itself in frequent palpitations, heart-heavings, and alterations of coun- 
tenance, in spite of the assistance of a smelling-bottle, which she 
incessantly applied to her nostrils. 

Various were the conjectures of the company on this occasion : 
some imagined he had mistaken the place of rendezvous, as he had 
never been at church since he first settled in that parish ; others be- 
lieved he had met with some accident, in consequence of which his 
attendants had carried him back to his own house 3 and a third set, in 
which the bride herself was thought to be comprehended, could not 
help suspecting that the commodore had changed his mind. But all 
these suppositions, ingenious as they were, happened to be wide of the 
true cause that detained him, which was no other than this. — The 
commodore and his crew had, by dint of tacking, almost weathered 
the parson's house that stood to windward of the church, when the 
notes of a pack of hounds unluckily reached the ears of the two 
hunters which Trunnion and the heutenant bestrode. These fleet 
animals no sooner heard the enlivening sound, than, eager for the 
chase, they sprung away all of a sudden, and strained every nerve to 
partake of the sport, flew across the fields with incredible speed, over- 
leaped hedges and ditches, and everything in their way, without the 
least regard to their unfortunate riders. The lieutenant, whose steed 
had got the heels of the other, finding it would be great folly and 
presumption in him to pretend to keep the saddle with his wooden 
leg, very wisely took the opportunity of throwing himself off in his 
passage through a field of rich clover, among which he lay at hiseasej 
and seeing his captain advancing at full gallop, hailed him with the 
salutation of " What cheer ? ho !" The commodore, who was in in- 
finite distress, eyeing him askance as he passed, replied with a faltering 
voice, " Oh, you are safe at an anchor 5 I wish to God I were as fast 
moored !" Nevertheless, conscious of his disabled heel, he would not 



I 710 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Smollett. 

i venture to try the experiment which had succeeded so well with 

; Hatchway, but resolved to stick as close as possible to his horse's back, 

I until Providence should interpose in his behalf. With this view he 

I dropped his whip, and with his right hand laid fast hold on the 

I pummel, contracting every muscle in his body to secure himself in 

i the seat, and grinning most formidably, in consequence of this exertion. 

In this attitude he was hurried on a considerable way, when all of a 
sudden his view was comforted by a five-bar gate that appeared before 
him, as he never doubted that there the career of his hunter must 
necessarily end. But alas ! he reckoned without -his host. Far from 
halting at this obstruction, the horse sprung over it with amazing 
agility, to the utter confusion and disorder of his owner, who lost his 
hat and periwig in the leap, and now began to think in good earnest 
that he was actually mounted on the back of the devil. He recom- 
mended himself to God, his reflection forsook him, his eyesight and 
all his other senses failed, he quitted the reins, and, fastening by in- 
stinct on the mane, w^as in this condition conveyed into the midst of 
the sportsmen, who were astonished at the sight of such an apparition. 
Neither was their surprise to be wondered at, if we reflect on the 
figure that presented itself to their view. The commodore's person 
was at all times an object of admiration ; much more so on this occa- 
sion, when every singularity was aggravated by the circumstances of 
his dress and disaster. 

He had put on, in honour of his nuptials, his best coat of blue 
broadcloth, cut by a tailor of Ramsgate, and trimmed with five dozen 
of brass buttons, large and small j his breeches were of the same 
piece, fastened at the knees with large bunches of tape ; his waistcoat 
was of red plush, lapelled with green velvet, and garnished with vellum 
holes; his boots bore an infinite resemblance, both in colour and shape, 
to a pair of leather buckets 3 his shoulder was graced with a broad 
buff" belt, from whence depended a huge hanger, with a hilt like that 
of a backsword ; and on each side of his pummel appeared a rusty 
pistol, rammed in a case covered with a bearskin. The loss of his tie 
periwig and laced hat, which were curiosities of the kind, did not at 
all contribute to the improvement of the picture, but, on the contrary, 
by exhibiting his bald pate, and the natural extension of his lantern 
jaws, added to the peculiarity and extravagance of the whole. Such 
a spectacle could not have failed of diverting the whole company 
from the chase, had his horse thought proper to pursue a diflferent 
route, but the beast was too keen a sporter to choose any other way 
than that which the stag followed; and therefore, without stopping to 
gratify the curiosity of the spectators, he, in a few minutes, outstripped 
every hunter in the field. There being a deep hollow way betwixt 



Motley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 711 

him and the hounds, rather than ride round about the length of a 
furlong to a path that crossed the lane, he transported himself, at one 
jump, to the unspeakable astonishment and terror of a waggoner who 
chanced to be underneath and saw this phenomenon fly over his car- 
riage. This was not the only adventure he achieved. The stag 
having taken a deep river that lay in his way, every man directed his 
course to a bridge in the neighbourhood ; but our bridegroom's coarser, 
despising all such conveniences, plunged into the stream without hesita- 
tion, and swam in a twinkling to the opposite shore. This sudden immer- 
sion into an element of which Trunnion was properly a native, in all 
probability helped to recruit the exhausted spirits of his rider, who, at 
his landing on the other side, gave some tokens of sensation by hallooing 
aloud for assistance, which he could not possibly receive, because his 
horse still maintained the advantage he had gained, and would not 
allow himself to be overtaken. 

In short, after a long chase, that lasted several hours, and extended 
to a dozen miles at least, he was the first in at the death of the deer, 
being seconded by the lieutenant's gelding, which, actuated by the 
same spirit, had, without a rider, followed his companion's example.— 
Peregrine Pickle, chap. v. 



283.— THE IMAGE-BREAKERS OF THE NETHERLANDS. 1566. 

[John Lothrop Motley, 1814. 

[John Lothrop Motley, the author of one of the most important historical works 
of modern times, "The Rise of the Dutch Republic," is an American by birth, 
though of English extraction on both sides, his parents being able to trace their 
descent from the "Pilgrim Fathers." He was born in Mas., U.S.A., April 15th, 
1814. Having graduated at Harvard University, he was appointed Secretary to the 
United States Legation at St. Petersburg. Returning to the States, he occupied him- 
self with literary pursuits, contributing largely to the North American Review. In 
185 1 he visited Europe, and established himself at Dresden, with a view to writing 
the history of that great struggle by which the Netherlands threw off the Spanish 
yoke. This task he has accomplished in a manner that places him among the first 
of modern historians. It appeared in its complete form, in 2 vols., i860, and 
has already been translated into the French (by Guizor), Dutch, and German 
languages.] 

A VERY paltry old woman excited the image-breaking of Antwerp. 
She had for years been accustomed to sit before the door of the cathe- 
dral with wax tapers and wafers, earning a scanty subsistence from the 
profits of her meagre trade, and by the small coins which she some- 
times received in charity. Some of the rabble began to chaffer with 
this ancient hucksteress. They scoffed at her consecrated wares ; they 
bandied with her ribald jests, of which her public position had fur- 



7T2 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Motley. 

nished her with a supply -, they assured her that the hour had come 
when her idolatrous traffic was to be for ever terminated, when she 
and her patroness Mary were to be given over to destruction to- 
gether. The old woman, enraged, answered threat with threat, and 
gibe with gibe. Passing from words to deeds, she began to catch 
from the ground every offensive missile or weapon which she could 
find, and to lay about her in all directions. Her tormentors defended 
themselves as they could. Having destroyed her whole stock-in-trade, 
they provoked others to appear in her defence. The passers-by 
thronged to the scene ; the cathedral was soon filled to overflowing j 
a furious tumult was already in progress. 

Many persons fled in alarm to the Town House, carr}'ing informa- 
tion of this outbreak to the magistrates. John Van Immerzeel, Mar- 
grave of Antwerp, was then holding communication with the senate, 
and aw^aiting the arrival of the wardmasters, whom it had at last been 
thought expedient to summon. Upon intelligence of this riot, which 
the militia, if previously mustered, might have prevented, the senate 
determined to proceed to the cathedral in a body, with the hope of 
quelling the mob by the dignity of their presence. The margrave, 
who was the high executive officer of the little commonwealth, 
marched down to the cathedral accordingly, attended by the two bur- 
gomasters and all the senators. At first their authority, solicitations, 
and personal influence, produced a good effect. Some of those out- 
side consented to retire, and the tumult partially subsided within. As 
night, however, was fast approaching, many of the mob insisted upon 
remaining for evening service. They were informed that there would 
be none that night, and that for once the people could certainly dis- 
pense wath their vespers. 

Several persons now manifesting an intention of leaving the cathe- 
dral, it was suggested to the senators that if they should lead the way, 
the population would follow in their train, and so disperse to their 
homes. The excellent magistrates took the advice, not caring per- 
haps to fulfil any longer the dangerous but not dignified functions of 
police-officers. Before departing they adopted the precaution of 
closing all the doors of the church, leaving a single one open, that the 
rabble still remaining might have an opportunity to depart. It seemed 
not to occur to the senators that the same gate would as conveniently 
afford an entrance for those without as an egress for those within. 
That unlooked-for event happened, however. No sooner had the 
magistrates retired than the rabble burst through the single door which 
had been left open, overpowered the margrave, who, with a few at- 
tendants, had remained behind, vainly endeavouring by threats and 
exhortations to appease the tumult, drove him ignominiously from the 



Motley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 713 

church, and threw all the other portals wide open. Then the popu- 
lace flowed in like an angry sea. The whole of the cathedra] was 
at the mercy of the rioters, who were evidently bent on mischief. 
The wardens and treasurers of the church, after a vain attempt to 
secure a few of its most precious possessions, retired. They carried 
the news to the senators, who, accompanied by a few halberdmen, 
again ventured to approach the spot. It was but for a moment, how- 
ever, for, appalled by the furious sounds which came from within the 
church, as if invisible forces were preparing a catastrophe which no 
human power could withstand, the magistrates fled precipitately from 
the scene. Fearing that the next attack would be upon the Town 
House, they hastened to concentrate at that point their available 
strength, and left the stately cathedral to its fate. 

And now, as the shadows of night were deepening the perpetual 
twilight of the church, the work of destruction commenced. Instead 
of vespers rose the fierce music of a psalm, yelled by a thousand 
angr}' voices. It seemed the preconcerted signal for a general attack. 
A band of marauders flew upon the image of the Virgin, dragged it 
forth from its receptacle, plunged daggers into its inanimate body, 
tore off its jewelled and embroidered garments, broke the whole figure 
into a thousand pieces, and scattered the fragments along the floor. 
A wild shout succeeded, and then the work, which seemed delegated 
to a comparatively small number of the assembled crowd, went on 
with incredible celerity. Some were armed with axes, some with 
bludgeons, some with sledge-hammers j others brought ladders, pulleys, 
ropes, and levers. Every statue was hurled from its n'che, every 
picture torn from the wall, every painted window shivered to atoms, 
ever}^ ancient monument shattered, every sculptured decoration, how- 
ever inaccessible in appearance, hurled to the ground. Indefatigably, 
audaciously endowed, as it seemed, with preternatural strength and 
nimbleness, these furious iconoclasts clambered up the dizzy heights, 
shrieking and chattering like malignant apes, as they tore off in 
triumph the slowly-matured fruit of centuries. In a space of time 
wonderfully brief, they had accompHshed their task. 

A colossal and magnificent group of the Saviour crucified between 
two thieves adorned the principal altar. The statue of Christ was 
wrenched from its place with ropes and pulleys, while the malefactors, 
with bitter and blasphemous irony, were left on high, the only repre- 
sentatives of the marble crowd which had been destroyed. A very 
beautiful piece of architecture decorated the choir — the "repository," 
as it was called, in which the body of Christ was figuratively enshrined. 
This much-admired work rested upon a single column, but rose, arch 
upon arch, pillar upon pillar, to the height of three hundred feet, till 



714 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Motley. 

quite lost in the vault above. It was now shattered into a million 
pieces. The statues, images, pictures, ornaments, as they lay upon the 
ground, were broken with sledge-hammers, hewn with axes, trampled, 
torn, and beaten into shreds. A troop of harlots, snatching waxen 
tapers from the altars, stood around the destroyers, and lighted them 
at their work. Nothing escaped their omnivorous rage. They dese- 
crated seventy chapels, forced open all the chests of treasure, covered 
their own squalid attire with the gorgeous robes of the ecclesiastics, 
broke the sacred bread, poured out the sacramental wine into golden 
chalices, quaffing huge draughts to the beggars' health -, burned all 
the splendid missals and manuscripts, and smeared their shoes with 
the sacred oil, with which kings and prelates had been anointed. It 
seemed that each of these malicious creatures must have been endowed 
with the strength of a hundred giants. How else, in the few brief 
hours of a midsummer night, could such a monstrous desecration have 
been accomplished by a troop, which, according to all accounts, was 
not more than one hundred in number. There was a multitude of 
spectators, as upon all such occasions, but the actual spoilers were 
very few. 

The noblest and richest temple of the Netherlands was a wreck, 
but the fury of the spoilers was excited, not appeased. Each seizing 
a burning torch, the whole herd rushed from the cathedral, and swept 
howling through the streets. "Long live the beggars!" resounded 
through the sultry midnight air, as the ravenous pack flew to and fro, 
smiting every image of the Virgin, every crucifix, every sculptured 
saint, every Catholic symbol which they met with upon their path. 
All night long they roamed from one sacred edifice to another, 
thoroughly destroying as they went. Before morning they had sacked 
thirty churches within the city walls. They entered the monasteries, 
burned their invaluable libraries, destroyed their altars, statues, pictures, 
and, descending into the cellars, broached every cask which they found 
there, pouring out in one great flood all the ancient wine and ale with 
which those holy men had been wont to solace their retirement from 
generation to generation. They invaded the nunneries, whence the 
occupants, panic-stricken, fled for refuge to the houses of their friends 
and kindred. The streets were filled with monks and nuns, running 
this way and that, shrieking and fluttering, to escape the claws of 
these fiendish Calvinists. The terror was imaginary, for not the least 
remarkable feature in these transactions was, that neither insult nor 
injury was ofi^ered to man or woman, and that not a farthing's value 
of the immense amount of property destroyed was appropriated. It 
was a war, not against the living, but against graven images, nor was 
the sentiment which prompted the onslaught in the least commingled 



Mudie.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 715 

with a desire of plunder. The principal citizens of Antwerp, expect- 
ing every instant that the storm would be diverted from the ecclesias- 
tical edifices to private dwellings, and that robbery, rape, and murder 
would follow sacrilege, remained all night expecting the attack, and 
prepared to defend their hearths, even if the altars were profaned. 
The precaution was needless. It was asserted by the Catholics that 
the confederates, and other opulent Protestants, had organized this 
company of profligates for the meagre pittance of ten stivers a day. 
On the other hand, it was believed by many that the Catholics had 
themselves plotted the whole outrage in order to bring odium upon 
the Reformers. Both statements were equally unfounded. The task 
was most thoroughly performed, but it was prompted by a furious 
fanaticism, not by baser motives. 

Two days and nights longer the havoc raged unchecked through all 
the churches of Antwerp and the neighbouring villages. Hardly a 
statue or picture escaped destruction. Yet the rage was directed 
exclusively against stocks and stones. Not a man was wounded nor a 
woman outraged. Prisoners, indeed, who had been languishing hope- 
lessly in dungeons were liberated. A monk who had been in the 
prison of the Barefoot Monastery for twelve years, recovered his 
freedom. Art was trampled in the dust, but humanity deplored no 
victims. — Rise of the Dutch Republic. 



284.— ORIGIN OF DESERTS. 

[Robert Mudie, 1777 — 1842. 

[Robert Mudie was born in Forfarshire, 1777. In 1802 he was appointed professor 
of Gaelic and teacher of drawing in the Academy of Inverness. But he abandoned 
the duties of a teacher for Hterature, and commenced his career with a novel called 
" Glenfergus." He then became a reporter to the London newspapers; wrote for 
periodicals, and published in rapid succession eighty volumes on natural history and 
other subjects of an instructive or entertaining character. His chief works are, 
"The British Naturalist," "Feathered Tribes of the British Islands," "The 
Elements— the Heavens, the Earth, the Air, the Sea," "Popular Mathematics," 
"The Seasons," "Man in his Physical Structure, Intellectual Faculties," &c., &c. 
Mr. Mudie died in 1842.] 

When once a desert has been formed to the same extent as it exists 
here,* — and indeed as it may be partially traced, and sometimes is 
very conspicuous along the whole of the lower ground whicli sepa- 
rates the central basin of the eastern continent from the countries 
which lie to the south and the east, — when once such a desert has 
been formed, it tends to spread itself, as though it were an ill-condi- 
tioned sore upon the earth ; and it does this the more readily the more 

* Sahara. 



HI 



7f6 THE ErERY-DAY BOOK [MwSc 

extensive it is, and the warmer the climate in vihich it w situated. 
We may mention without anticipating, that one of the chief means 
by which the air is cooled is the c"onverting the moistme into rapoar, 
and that, generally speaking, this operation is neaily in proportion to 
the heat- This is the reason why the margin of the waters and the 
shade oi trees are so cool and refreshing in sultry weather; by thdr 
cooling tendency the trees, to some extent, and die water if it is ex- 
tensive, probabh' to more^ perform a part the \&j opp<»ite of that 
which the desert performs— they cool the air over them, and it 
descends and comes outwards in all directi<ms fFom them, often a 
delightful and refreshing breeze, which tends to spread fertility. 
- The desert, on the other hand, when beaten npon by the heat of 
the sun, especially when that sun is nearly overhead, as is the case on 
Sahara, is intensely hot ; in consequence of this heat the air orer it is 
continually ascending, like the smoke of a fnmaoe, and the air from. 
all sides around moves inwards to supply its place ; but the air which 
thus moves tow ards the desert becomes hotter as it approaches, and 
therefore, instead of letting fall in rain any part <rf" the mc»stnre with 
which it is already charged, it drains the moisture of the surrounding 
parts J and, as it is not cooled when over the desert, it lets ^11 none 
of its moisture, but ascends into the upper regions of the air, and 
there spreads to a great distance, earn ing the moisture along with it. 
In this way it is highly probable that the moisture which the desert 
thus drains from the dry and scanty vegetation on the desertward side 
of the mountains of Adas may descend in snow npon the summits of 
those mountains, or in rain upon the countries between them and the 
sea. 

This progress can easily be understood to be much more rapid than 
the original ccnvereion of a fertile country into a desert, and hence we 
find that there is not a little of its progress which has taken place 
within the period of authentic and not very remote histoiy. On both 
sides of the valley of the Nile, and on ever}' part of the mat^gin of the 
desert, which has been examined with sufficient care, there have been 
found the most conclusive evidence of former fertility and population, 
and in many instances abundant population and a high state of the 
arts. These evidences are traceable along the whole line of the d^er^ 
both in Africa and where it extends into Asia j and in the latter 
quarter of the world, we have whole provinces now entirely unpro- 
ductive, and ruins of magnificent cities, well known to histoiy, in the 
progress of being buried in the sand. 

What may have been the cause which converted the first por- 
tion of the earth into a desert of sand we hare not the means 
of ascertaining; but there is some reason to believe that the tropi- 



Mudie.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 717 

cal character of the year which belongs to all the southern hemisphere, 
with the exception of the smaller islands, which are either of 
volcanic origin or the production of coral insects, has probably 
some connexion with the extent of desert which lies between 
the countries which communicate with one another by the medium 
of the Mediterranean waters and those which have the tropical 
seasons. We are not yet in possession of all the elements ; but 
we shall afterwards be able perhaps to show with at least a consider- 
able degree of probability, that the circulation of the air and the 
waters freely round the southern hemisphere in not a very high lati- 
tude, and the cutting off the influence of the cold of the south pole 
from any connexion with the climate and economy of the middle 
latitudes, which is the result of this circulation, is at least one impor- 
tant element in determining why, in the one hemisphere, the seasons 
should be chiefly broken into dry and rainy, while in the other there 
is the regular succession of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. 

In some parts of India we have at least a vague sort of evidence of 
the manner in which a desert might be produced. The action of 
nature is so powerful in that country, that if man ceases to practise 
his arts of cukure for even a very short time, the memorials of him- 
self and his works are speedily obliterated. If the country is so 
situated that the periodical rains can reach it, man and his memorials 
are blotted out by the power of vegetation ; and the bamboo jungle, 
rising to the height of sixty feet in a single year, and bristling with 
spines which are almost as formidable as the bayonets of armies, first 
conceal his dwelling, and then give up the remains of it to the leopard, 
the snake, and the bat. If, however, the rains do not reach the 
country, the change would be of a very different character : vegetation 
would soon cease, and in brief space large tracts of erewhile fertile 
ground would be turned into unproductive deserts. There are many 
of the higher districts of southern India upon which it would be al- 
together impossible to obtain crops, except by means of artificial water- 
ing, often from wells which require to be sunk to the depth of two 
hundred or three hundred feet ; and we have only to suppose a stop 
to the labours of man in such a country, in order to conceive how a 
desert might be begun in it, and this desert, once begun, would extend 
very rapidly. Indeed, from the violence of elemental action, probably 
at a time when the rains of the Monsoons extended more completely 
over India than they do at present, there are evidences of a very re- 
markable decomposition of what has once been the uppermost rock 
in that country. 

To enter into all the details of evidence, either as to the original 
cause of the great desert itself, or as to the eifects which it produces 



7x8 



THE E VERY-DAY BOOK 



[Stanley. 



m 



I 



in the general economy of the earth, would, however, require more 
space than we are able to bestow upon it j and the full understanding 
even of what is known would require the introduction of principles 
which do not, strictly speaking, come within the scope of this volume. 
We shall, therefore, only offer one or two further short remarks on 
this very singular region of the world, — a region which, though it 
is most extended and conspicuous in Africa, yet stretches the whole 
way from the extreme west of that continent to the confines of 
Siberia, interrupted only by mountain chains and the valleys of rivers, 
the last of which it is gradually invading. Indeed, it is easy to see 
how very soon even a large river might be obliterated by the desert ; 
because, if the sand once reach the banks, and drift into the channel, 
the water will steal through underneath, and the process of oblitera- 
tion will go on much more rapidly than those who have not thought 
of the subject are aware of. And in those situations where the river 
flows in a sandy channel, and receives no addition to its waters, we 
have proofs in many places that the evaporation alone is sufficient to 
dry it up ; for in Arabia, Persia, and various other countries, the 
greater number of the rivers which rise in the interior mountains, and 
flow for some distance over the plains, are lost in the sand or dried up 
by the heat of the sun acting upon its surface. 

There is a peculiar species of vegetation which, as we may so ex- 
press it, contends with and resists the desert ; this consists chiefly of 
saline plants, but these in time increase the evil. Though their growth 
is exceedingly slow, and they keep their places for long periods of time, 
yet they at last give way j and, as they decompose, the salts which they 
contain are left on the surface. In the wet season, there is generally 
some rain upon the desert as far as vegetation extends, and this rain 
washes the saline water into the hollows, where it poisons the waters, 
or at all events renders them bitter, whether those waters remain in 
pools at the surface, or sink down into the sand and are procured by 
digging wells. — Ike Earth, section iv. 



285.— TH?J STORK. 
[The Right Rev. Edward Stanley, Bishop of Norwich, 1779- 



■1849. 



[The Rev. Edward Stanley was born in London in 1779. He studied at Cam- 
bridge, took holy orders, and was presented by his father. Sir John Stanley, in 1805, 
to the living of Alderley, in Cheshire, the duties of which he fulfilled for the long 
period of thirty-two years. He was made Bishop of Norwich in 1837. Bishop 
Stanley was a geologist, entomologist, botanist, aiid ornithologist. He was a Fellow of 
the Royal Society, and President of the Linnean Society. He contributed articles of 



Stanley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 719 

natural history to " Blackwood/' and his " Familiar History of Birds" is a much 
valued work, and has passed through many editions. Biihop Stanley died in 1849.] 

So punctual is the arrival and departure of the various migratory birds, 
that to this day the Persians, as well as ancient Arabs, often form their 
almanacks on their movements. Thus, the beginning of the singing 
of the Nightingales was the commencement of a festival, welcoming 
the return of warm weather j while the coming of the Storks was the 
period of another, announcing their joy at the departure of Winter. 
The expression, "the Stork in the Heaven," is more apphcable than at 
first appears, for even when out of sight, its pathway may be traced 
by the loud and piercing cries, peculiar to those of the New as well as 
of the Old World. In America* too its migrations are equally 
regular, passing its immense periodical journeys at such a prodigious 
height as to be seldom observed. It is satisfactory thus to strengthen 
the authority of a Scriptural passage from so distinct a source, though 
amply borne out by witnesses in the very country in which the prophet 
dwelL 

"In the middle of April," says a travellerf in the Holy Land, 
"while our ship was riding at anchor under Mount Carmel, we saw 
three flights of these birds, each of which took up more than' three 
hours in passing us, extending itself, at the same time, more than half 
a mile in breadth." They were then leaving Egypt, and steering 
towards the north-east of Palestine, where it seems, from the account 
of another eye-witness, they abound in the month of May. " Re- 
turning from Cana to Nazareth," he observes, " I saw the fields so 
filled with flocks of Storks, that they appeared quite white with them; 
and when they rose and hovered in the air, they seemed like clouds. 
The respect paid in former times to these birds is still shown ; for the 
Turks, notwithstanding their recklessness in shedding human blood, 
have a more than ordinary regard for Storks, looking upon them with 
an almost reverential affection." 

In the neighbourhood of Smyrna, and indeed throughout the whole 
of the Ottoman dominions, w^herever the bird abides during his 
summer visits, he is welcomed. They call him their friend and their 
brother, the friend and brother exclusively of the Moslem race, enter- 
taining a belief that wherever the influence of their religion prevailed, 
he would still bear them company, and it might seem that these 
sagacious birds are well aware of this predilection ; for singularly 
enough, a recent traveller,! who met with them in incredible numbers 
in Asia Minor, observed that, although they built on the mosques. 



* Hearne's " Journey in North America." f Chardin. 

J Macfarlane's " Constantinople." 



m 
It 



720 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Stanley. 

minarets, and Turkish houses, their nests were never erected on a 
Christian roof. In the Turkish quarters they were met in all direc- 
tions, strutting about most famiUarly, mixing with the people in the 
streets, but rarely entering the parts of the town inhabited by the 
Greeks or Armenians, by whom, possibly, they may be occasionally 
disturbed. Nothing can be more interesting than the view of an 
assemblage of their nests. Divided as they always are, into pairs, 
sometimes only the long elastic neck of one of them is to be seen 
peering from its cradle of nestlings, the mate standing by on one of 
his long slim legs, and watching with every sign of the closest affec- 
tion. While other couples on the adjacent walls are fondly entwining 
their pliant necks, and mixing their long bills, the one sometimes bend- 
ing her neck over her back, and burying her bill in the soft plumage, 
while her companion, clacking his long beak with a peculiar sharp and 
monotonous sound, raises her head and embraces it with a quivering 
delight 5 while from the holes and crannies of the walls, below the 
Stork's nest, thousands of little blue Turlle-Doves flit in all directions, 
keeping up an incessant cooing by day and night. 

At another Mohammedan town, Fez, on the coast of Barbary, there 
is a rich hospital, expressly built, and supported by large funds, for the 
sole purpose of assisting and nursing sick Cranes and Storks, and of 
burying them when dead ! This respect arises from a strange belief, 
handed down from time immemorial, that the Storks are human 
beings in that form, men from some distant islands, who, at certain 
seasons of the year, assume the shape of these birds, that they may 
visit Barbary, and return at a fixed time to their own country, where 
they resume the human form. It has been conjectured that this 
tradition came originally from Egypt, where the Storks are held in 
equal respect, as we shall see, when we speak of their sacred bird, the 
Ibis. By the Jews, the former was also respected, though for a dif- 
ferent reason 5 they called it Chaseda, — which in Hebrew signifies 
piety or mercy, — from the tenderness shown by the young to the 
older birds, who, when the latter were feeble or sick, would bring them 
food. 

This affection, however, appears to be mutual, for the parent birds 
have a more than ordinary degree of affection for their young, and 
have been known to perish rather than desert them. An attachment 
of this sort once occasioned the death of an old Stork, at the burning 
of the city of Delft, in Holland. When the flames approached her 
nest, situated on a house-top, she exerted herself to the utmost to save 
her young ; but finding every effort useless, she remained and perished 
with them. Besides the Jews, other ancient nations held these birds 
in veneration. A law among the Greeks, obliging children to support 



Talfourd.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 

their parents, even received its name from a reference to these birds.* 
By the Romans it was called the pious bird, and was also an emblem 
on the medals of such Roman princes as merited the title of Pius. Of 
their attachment towards each other, we can give another instance, 
which occurred in this country. 

A gentleman had for some years been possessed of two brown 
Cranes {Ardea pavonia) -, one of them at length died, and the survivor 
became disconsolate. He was apparently following his companion, 
when his master introduced a large looking-glass into the aviary. The 
bird no sooner beheld his reflected image, than he fancied she for 
whom he mourned had returned to him ; he placed himself close to 
the mirror, plumed his feathers, and showed every sign of happiness. 
The scheme answered completely : the Crane recovered his health 
and spirits, passed almost all his time before the looking-glass, and 
lived many years after, dying at length of an accidental injury. — J 
Familiar History of Birds ^ pp. 341-344. 



286.— ION'S INTERCESSION. 

[Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, 1795 — 1854. 

[Mr. Justice Talfourd was born at Reading, 1795: his father was a brewer, his 
mother the daughter of a dissenting minister. Young Talfourd was sent to a 
dissenting grammar school, where he studied under the guidance of the celebrated 
Dr. Valpy. In 18 13 he became the pupil of Mr. Chitty, and was called to the Bar 
in 1821 : he travelled the Western Circuit, and was at the same time law reporter to 
the Times. His power as an orator and his legal acumen soon brought him into notice. 
In 1835 hs "^^ returned as member of parliament for his native town. In his 
representative capacity he introduced the Copyright Act (5 and 6 Vict. c. 45, July 
I, 1842). Sir Thomas Talfourd's most celebrated works are his three tragedies, 
" Ion," the " Athenian Captive," and " Glencoe." The most popular of theac was 
"Ion," which vras produced at Covent Garden Theatre in 1835, with Mr. Macready 
as the hero. Sir Thomas made many other contributions in prose and verse to 
general literature. Of his prose writings, his "Vacation Rambles" abounds with 
graceful passages, and evinces his fine literary culture. In May, 1854, he was in the 
act of addressing the grand jury at Stafford, when he was seized with apoplexy, and 
died within the precincts of the court.] 

CHARACTERS. 

Adrastus. Crythes. Ion. 

Adrastus discovered. — Crythes introducing Ion". 

Cry. The king ! 

Ad. Stranger, I bid thee welcome 3 
We are about to tread the same dark passage. 



* liiXapyiKOQ vojxoQ. 
3 A 




722 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Talfourd. 

Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword [to Crythes] 
Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready ? 

Cry. Thou raay'st behold them plainly in the court; 
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground. 
The steel gleams on the altar, and the slave 
Disrobes himself for duty. 

Ad. {to Ion) Dost thou see them ? 

Ion. I do. 

Ad. By Heaven ! he does not change. 

If, even now, thou wilt depart, and leave 
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 

Ion. I thank thee for thy offer -, but I stand 
Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 
In all that makes life precious to the brave 3 
Who perish not alone, but in their fall 
Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed. 
And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 
For them, I am content to speak no more. 

Ad. Thou hast thy wish, then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
Casts its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 
I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant. 
Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
Now leave us. 

Cry. What, alone ? 

Ad. Yes, slave, alone : 

He is no assassin ! \_Exit Crythes. 

Tell me who thou art. 
What generous source owns that heroic blood. 
Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great wars 
Have nursed the courage that can look on death — 
Certain and speedy death — with placid eye ? 

Ion. I am a simple youth, who never bore 
The weight of armour — one who may not boast 
Of noble birth, or valour of his own. 
Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak 
In thy great presence, and have made my heart. 
Upon the verge of bloody death, as calm. 
As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 
Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 
Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms 
Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 
Of soft oblivion — to belong to me ! 
These are the strengths of Heaven 5 to thee they speak. 



Talfourd.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 723 

Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry. 

Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 

Ad. I know it must 3 so may'st thou spare thy warnings. 
The envious gods in me have doom'd a race. 
Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts. 
Whence their own dawn upon the infant world 3 
And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 
To meet their vengeance 3 but till then I rule 
As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 

Ion. I will not further urge thy safety to thee j 
It may be, as thou say'st, too late 3 nor seek 
To make thee tremble at the gathering curse 
Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall 3 
But thou art gifted with a nobler sense — 
I know thou art my sovereign ! — sense of pain 
Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls. 
And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers 
Have kept their cherish' d state 3 whose heartstrings, still 
The living fibres of thy rooted power. 
Quiver wnth agonies thy crimes have drawn 
From Heavenly justice on them. 

Ad. How ! my crimes ? 

Ion. Yes 3 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is. 
Sorrow shall answer it 3 and thou hast not 
A poor man's privilege to bear alone. 
Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen. 
The penalties of evil 3 for in thine, 
A nation's fate lies circled. King Adrastus ! 
Steel'd as thy heart is with the usages 
Of pomp and power, a few short summers since 
Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. 
Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then. 
Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 
Glare o'er their perishing children 3 hast thou shared 
The glow of a first friendship, which is born 
'Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth 
Smitten amidst its playthings 3 — let the spirit 
Of thy ow^n innocent childhood whisper pity ! — Ion ; a Tragedy, 



3 A 2 



724 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Beveridge. 

287.— ON SELF-DENIAL. 

[Bishop Beveridge, 1637 — 1708. 

[The Rev » William Beveridge was born at Barrow, in Leicestershire, J.637. At the 
age of eighteen he wrote a treatise on the excellence and use of the Hebrew, Chaldee, 
Syriac, Arabic, and Samaritan tongues, with a Syriac grammar. He was ordained 
in 1 661, and was successively Vicar of Ealing, in Middlesex, and Rector of St. 
Peter's, Cornhill. His piety and energy as a parish priest obtained for him the 
name of the Restorer and Reviver of primitive piety. He was made Prebendary of 
St. Paul's — then Archdeacon of Colchester — and afterwards^ Prebe dary of Canter- 
bury. In 1704 he was promoted to the see of St. Asaph, where he was equally dis- 
tinguished by his apostolic virtues. His works are very numerous ; his " Private 
Thoughts on Religion " is well known. Bishop Beveridge died at Westminster in 
1708.] 

Christ hath said in plain terms, *' If any man will come after me, 
let him deny himself j" implying, that he that doth not deny himself 
cannot go after him. 

But besides that, there is an impossibility in the thing itself, that 
any one should be a true Christian or go after Christ, and not deny 
himself, as may be easily perceived, if we will but consider what true 
Christianity requires of us, and what it is to be a real Christian. A 
true Christian, we know, is one that lives by faith and not by sight ; 
that " looks not at the things which are seen, but at those things which 
are not seen 3" that believes whatsoever Christ hath said, trusteth on 
whatsoever he hath promised, and obeyeth whatsoever he hath com- 
manded ; that receiveth Christ as his only Priest to make atonement 
for him, as his only Prophet to instruct, and as his only Lord and 
Master to rule and govern him. In a word, a Christian is one that 
gives up himself and all he hath to Christ, who gave himself and all 
he hath to him ; and therefore the very notion of true Christianity 
implies and supposes the denial of ourselves, without which it is as 
impossible for a man to be a Christian, as it is for a subject to be 
rebellious and loyal to his prince at the same time -, and therefore it is 
absolutely necessary that we go out of ourselves before we can go to 
him. We must strip ourselves of our very selves before we can put 
on Christy for Christ himself hath told us, that " no man can serve 
two masters j for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else 
he will hold to the one and despise the other. We cannot serve both 
"God and Mammon," Christ and ourselves too 5 so that we must 
either deny ourselves to go after Christ, or else deny Christ to go after 
ourselves, so as to mind our own selfish ends and designs in the 
world. 

And verily it is a hard case if we cannot deny ourselves for him, 
who so far denied himself for us, as to lay down his own life to redeem 



Beveridge.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 725 

ours. He who was equal to God himself, yea, who himself was the 
true God, so far denied himself as to become man, yea, '' a man of 
sorrows and acquainted with griefs," for us -, and cannot we deny our- 
selves so much as a fancy, a conceit, a sin, or lust, for him ? How then 
can we expect that he should own us for his friends, his servants, or 
disciples ? No, he will never do it. Neither can we in reason expect 
that he should give himself and all the merits of his death and passion 
unto us, so long as we think much to give ourselves to him, or to deny 
ourselves for him. And therefore if we desire to be made partakers of 
all those glorious things that he hath purchased with his own most 
precious blood for the sons of men, let us begin here — indulge our 
flesh no longer, but deny ourselves whatsoever God hath been pleased 
to forbid. And for this end, let us endeavour each day more and more 
to live above ourselves, above the temper of our bodies, and above the 
allurements of the world : live as those who believe and profess that 
they are none of their own, but Christ's — his by creation 5 it was he 
that made us — his by preservation ; it is he that maintains us — and his 
by redemption ; it is he that hath purchased and redeemed us with his 
own blood. And therefore let us deny ourselves for the future to our 
very selves, whose we are not, and devote ourselves to him, whose 
alone we are. By this we shall manifest ourselves to be Christ's dis- 
ciples indeed, especially if we do not only deny ourselves, but also take 
up our cross and follow him. 

There is still another thing behind wherein we must deny ourselves, 
if we desire to go after Christy and that is, we must deny and 
renounce all our self-righteousness, and all hopes and confidences from 
ourselves and from what we have done ; which I look upon as a very 
great piece of self-denial 3 for naturally we are all prone to sacrifice to 
our own nets, to burn incense to our own drags, to boast of our own 
good works, and to pride ourselves with the conceit of our own 
righteousness. Though we be never so sinful, w^e would not be 
thought to be so, but would very fain be accounted righteous, not only 
by men, but by God himself, for something or other which ourselves 
do ; though, when all comes to all, we know not w^hat that should be -, 
but howsoever, the pride of our hearts is such, that we are loth to go out 
of ourselves to look for righteousness, or to be beholden to another for it. 

And this is the reason that justification by faith in Christ hath had 
so many adversaries in the world ; mankind in general being so much 
in love with themselves, and doting upon what themselves do, that 
they cannot endure to renounce and vilify their own obedience and 
good works, so much as to think that they stand in need of any other 
righteousness besides their own ; as if their own righteousness was so 
perfect, that God himself could find no fault with it, nor make any 



7^6 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Beveridge. 



exceptions against it^ but must needs acknowledge them to be just and 
righteous persons for it. Whereas, alas ! there is not the best action 
that ever a mere mortal did, but if examined by the strict riiles of 
justice, it is far from being good ; yea, so far, that God himself may 
justly pronounce it evil, and by consequence condemn the person that 
did it for doing of it. And therefore I cannot but wonder what it is 
that any man doth or can do, for which he can in reason expect to be 
justified before God ; our very righteousness being, as the prophet tells 
us, but as "filthy rags," and our most holy performances fraught with 
sin and imperfection, and therefore so far from ju,!;tifying us, that we 
may justly be condemned for them ; but this mankind doth not love 
to hear of, the pride of our hearts being such, that by ail means we 
must have something in ourselves whereof to glory before God him- 
self. But woe be to that person who hath no other righteousness but 
his own, wherein to appear before the Judge of the whole world, for 
howsoever specious his actions may seem to men, they will be adjudged 
sins before the eternal God. 

He therefore that would come to Christ, although he must labour 
after righteousness to the utmost of his power, yet when he hath done 
all, he must renounce it, and look upon himself as an unprofitable ser- 
vant ; for Christ '^ came not to call the righteous, but sinners to 
repentance 3" that is, he came not to call such persons as think they 
have righteousness enough of their own to serve their turns, for such 
persons think they have no need of him, and therefore it would be in 
vain to call them ; but he calls sinners, that is, such as may perhaps be 
as righteous as the other ^ but they do not think themselves to be so, 
but look upon themselves as undone for ever, unless they have some- 
thing else to trust to than their own good works and obedience to the 
moral law. Such persons therefore Christ came to call 5 and if they 
come to him, they cannot but find rest and righteousness in him. And 
if any of us desire to go after Christ so as to be his disciples, we must 
be sure to look upon ourselves as sinners, as deserving nothing but 
wrath and vengeance for whatsoever we have done. We must 
renounce all our own righteousness, and be so far from depending 
upon it, as to think that we have none to depend upon, for so really 
we have not. And when we have laid aside all thoughts of our own 
righteousness, as to the matter of our justification before God, then, 
and not till then, shall we be rightly qualified to embrace another's, 
even that righteousness which is by faith in Christ. Thus St. Paul, 
though he had as much, yea, more reason to trust in the flesh or in 
himself than others, for himself saith that "touching the righteousness 
which "s of the law," he was blameless; yet, saith he, "What things 
were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ. Yea, doubtless, and 



Schlegel.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 727 

I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of 
Christ Jesus my Lord 3 for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, 
and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, and be found in 
him ', not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but 
that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is 
of God by faith," Phil. iii. 7 — 9. Thus therefore it is that all those 
must do who desire to be, as St. Paul was, real disciples of Jesus 
Christ } as we must forsake our sins, so we must renounce our righteous- 
ness too. It is true, this is a great and difficalt part of self-denial, 
thus to deny ourselves all that pride, pleasure, and confidence v/hich 
we used to take in the thouo-hts of our own righteousness and obedience 

o O 

to the law of God -, but we must remember, that the first thing which 
our Saviour enjoins those that come after him, is to deny themselves. — 
Private Thoughts on a Christian Life, part ii. 



288.— MACBETH. 

[Augustus W. von Schlegel, 1767 — 1845. 

[Augustus William von Schlegel was born at Hanover, September 5, 1767. He 
wras the son of John Adolph von Schlegel, a native of Saxony, and descended from 
a noble family. He was the brother of the no less distinguished Frederick von 
Schlegel. He was educated partly at home and partly at the grammar school at 
Hanover, where he displayed a great talent for the acquisition of languages, and 
learned not only Greek and Latin, but English and French. He then proceeded to 
the University of Gottingen, where he studied philology. While at the university 
he formed an intimate friendship for Heyne, for whose " Virgil " in 1 788 he completed 
an index. He also became acquainted with Michaelis and Burger, to whose "Akademie 
der schonen Redekiinste" he contributed his "Ariadne" and an Essay on Dante. 
Schlegel combined his own studies with tuition, undertaking the private instruction 
of a rich young Englishman, and at the close of his University career, accepting the 
post of tutor to the son of Herr Muilmann, the celebrated banker of Amsterdam. 
On his return to Germany, he was elected professor in the University of Jena. Here 
he became acquainted with Schiller and Goethe, and shortly afterwards commenced his 
translations of Shakspeare. In 1805 he became acquainted with Madame de Stael, 
who was then visiting Berlin. She selected Schlegel to direct her studies in German, 
and confided to his charge the education of her children. He accompanied her in 
her travels through Italy, and finally made his abode at Coppet, on the Lake of 
Geneva, her paternal seat. On the death of his patroness, he accepted a Professor's 
Chair at Bonn, where he died 1845. The brothers Schlegel were the founders of 
the Modern Romantic School of German literature. Reckoning both his separate 
publications and contributions to periodicals, his printed works amount in number 
to 126. He is best known to the English public by his lectures on Dramatic Art 
and Literature.] 

Of Macbeth I have already spoken once in passing, and who could 
exhaust the praises of this subhme work. Since The Eumenides of 
iEschylus, nothing so grand and terrible has ever been written. The 
witches are not, it is true, divine Eumenides, and are not intended to 



728 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[Schlegel. 



be : they are ignoble and vulgar instruments of hell. A Gernaan poet, 
therefore, very ill understood their meaning, v^^hen he transformed 
them into mongrel beings, a mixture of fates, furies, and enchantresses, 
and clothed them with tragic dignity. Let no man venture to lay 
hand on Shakspeare's works thinking to improve anything essential : 
he will be sure to punish himself. The bad is radically odious, and to 
endeavour in any manner to ennoble it, is to violate the laws of pro- 
priety. Hence, in my opinion, Dante, and even Tasso, have been 
much more successful in their portraiture of daemons than Milton. 
Whether the age of Shakspeare still believed in ghosts and witches, is 
a matter of perfect indifference for the justification of the use which 
in Hamlet and Macbeth he has made of pre-existing traditions. No 
superstition can be widely diffused without having a foundation in 
human nature : on this the poet builds j he calls up from their hidden 
abysses that dread of the unknown, that presage of a dark side of 
nature, and a world of spirits, whjch philosophy now imagines it has 
altogether exploded. In this manner he is in some degree both the 
portrayer and the philosopher of superstition 3 that is, not the philoso- 
pher who denies and turns it into ridicule, bat, what is still more 
diflBcult, who distinctly exhibits its origin in apparently irrational and 
yet natural opinions. But when he ventures to make arbitrary changes 
in these popular traditions, he altogether forfeits his right to them, and 
merely holds up his own idle fancies to our ridicule. Shakspeare's 
picture of the witches is truly magical : in the short scenes where they 
enter, he has created for them a peculiar language, which, although 
composed of the usual elements, still seems to be a collection of formulae 
of incantation. The sound of the words, the accumulation of rhymes, 
and the rhythmus of the verse, form, as it were, the hollow music of 
a dreary witch-dance. He has been abused for using the names of 
disgusting objects ; but he who fancies the kettle of the witches can be ' 
made effective with agreeable aromatics, is as wise as those who desire 
that hell should sincerely and honestly give good advice. These 
repulsive things, from which the imagination shrinks, are here emblems 
of the hostile powers which operate in nature j and the repugnance 
of our senses is outweighed by the mental horror. With one another 
the witches discourse Hke women of the very lowest class j for this 
was the class to which witches were ordinarily supposed to belong : 
when, however, they address Macbeth they assume a loftier tone : 
their predictions, which they either themselves pronounce, or allow 
their apparitions to deliver, have all the obscure brevity, the majestic 
solemnity of oracles. 

We here see that the witches are merely instruments ; they are 
governed by an invisible spirit, or the operation of such great and 



Schlegel.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 729 

dreadful events would be above their sphere. With what intent 
did Shakspeare assign the same place to them in his play, which they 
occupy in the history of Macbeth as related in the old chronicles ? A 
monstrous crime is committed : Duncan, a venerable old man, and 
the best of kings, is, in defenceless sleep, under the hospitable roof, 
murdered by his subject, whom he has loaded with honours and 
rewards. Natural motives alone seem inadequate, or the perpetrator 
must have been portrayed as a hardened villain. Shakspeare wished 
to exhibit a more sublime picture : an ambitious but noble hero, yield- 
ing to a deep-laid hellish temptation j and in whom all the crimes to 
which, in order to secure the fruits of his first crime, he is impelled by 
necessity, cannot altogether eradicate the stamp of native heroism. He 
has therefore given a threefold division to the guilt of that crime. 
The first idea comes from that being whose whole activity is guided by 
a lust of wickedness. The weird sisters surprise Macbeth in the 
moment of intoxication of victory, when his love of glory has been 
gratified 3 they cheat his eyes by exhibiting to him as the work of fate 
what in reality can only be accomplished by his own deed, and gain 
credence for all their words by the immediate fulfilment of the first 
prediction. The opportunity of murdering the King immediately 
offers ; the wife of Macbeth conjures him not to let it slip j she urges 
him on with a fiery eloquence, which has at command all those sophisms 
that serve to throw a false splendour over crime. Little more than 
the mere execution falls to the share of Macbeth j he is driven into it, 
as it were, in a tumult of fascination. Repentance immediately follows, 
nay, even precedes the deed, and the stings of conscience leave him 
rest neither night nor day. But he is now fairly entangled in the 
snares of hell; truly frightful is it to behold that same Macbeth, who 
once as a warrior could spurn at death, now that he dreads the prospect 
of the life to come,* clinging with growing anxiety to his earthly 
existence the more miserable it becomes, and pitilessly removing out of 
the way whatever to his dark and suspicious mind seems to threaten 
danger. However much we may abhor his actions, we cannot alto- 
gether refuse to compassionate the state of his mind 3 we lament the 
ruin of so many noble qualities, and even in his last defence we are 
compelled to admire the struggle of a brave will with a cowardly con- 
science. We might believe that we witness in this tragedy the over- 
ruling destiny of the ancients represented in perfect accordance with 
their ideas : the whole originates in a supernatural influence, to which 
the subsequent events seem inevitably linked. Moreover, we even 
find here the same ambiguous oracles which, by their literal fulfilment. 



* We'd jump the life to come. 



730 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Schlegel 



deceive those who confide in them. Yet it may be easily shown that 
the poet has, in his work, displayed more enlightened views. He 
wishes to show that the conflict of good and evil in this world can 
only take place by the permission of Providence, which converts the 
curse that individual mortals draw down on their heads into a blessing 
to others. An accurate scale is followed in the retaliation. Lady 
Macbeth, who of all the human participators in the king's murder is 
the most guilty, is thrown by the terrors of her conscience into a state 
of incurable bodily and mental disease ; she dies, unlamented by her 
husband, with all the symptoms of reprobation. Macbeth is still found 
worthy to die the death of a hero on the field of battle. The noble 
Macduff is allowed the satisfaction of saving his country by punishing 
with his own hand the tyrant who had murdered his wife and children. 
Banquo, by an early death, atones for the ambitious curiosity 
which prompted the wish to know his glorious descendants, as he 
thereby has roused Macbeth's jealousy ; but he preserved his mind pure 
from the evil suggestions of the witches : his name is blessed in his 
race, destined to enjoy for a long succession of ages that royal dignity 
which Macbeth could only hold for his own life. In the progress of 
the action, this piece is altogether the reverse of Hamlet : it strides for- 
ward with amazing rapidity, from the first catastrophe (for Duncan's 
murder may be called a catastrophe) to the last. " Thought, and done !" 
is the general motto ; for, as Macbeth says. 

The flighty purpose never is o'ertook. 
Unless the deed go with it. 

In every feature we see an energetic heroic age, in the hardy North 
which steels every nerve. The precise duration of the action cannot 
be ascertained, — years perhaps, according to the story , but we know 
that to the imagination the most crowded time appears always the 
shortest. Here we can hardly conceive how so very much could ever 
have been compressed into so narrow a space j not merely external 
events, — the very inmost recesses in the minds of the dramatic perso- 
nages are laid open to us It is as if the drags were taken from the 
wheels of time, and they roll along without interruption in their de- 
scent. Nothing can equal this picture in its power to excite terror. 
We need only allude to the circumstances attending the murder of 
Duncan, the dagger that hovers before the eyes of Macbeth, the vision 
of Banquo at the feast, the madness of Lady Macbeth ; what can 
possibly be said on the subject that will not rather weaken the impres- 
.sion they naturally leave ? Such scenes stand alone, and are to be 
found only in this poet j otherwise the tragic muse might exchange her 
mask for the head of Medusa. — Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature. 



Gait.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 731 



289.— THE MINISTER'S "PLACING." 

[John Galt, 1779 — 1839. 

[John Galt was bom at Irvine, in Ayrshire, May 2, 1779. He was educated partly 
at home, partly at the grammar school of Irvine, and at Greenock. He was en- 
gaged for a short time in mercantile pursuits, and afterwards entered himself at 
Lincoln's Inn with the view of being called to the bar; he did not, however, pursue 
his study of the law. Gait is known chiefly by his Scotch novels, " The Ayrshire 
Legatees," which first appeared in " Blackwood's Magazine," the " Annals of the 
Parish," and the " Entail." These works give a view of society in the west of Scot- 
land as it existed in the last century and the commencement of the present one. 
Gait was the author ako of the " Life and Administration of Wolsey," " Voyages and 
Travels," " Sir Andrew Wylie," " Laurie Todd," " The Provost," " The Steamboat," 
"The Wandering Jew," "The Earthquake," &c., and numerous contributions to 
periodical literature. Gait died on the nth of April, 1839, ^^ Greenock.] 

Annals of the Year — 1760. 

First of the placing. — It was a great affair ; for I was put in by the 
patron, and the people knew nothing whatsoever of me 3 and their 
hearts were stirred into strife on the occasion, and they did all that lay 
within the compass of their power to keep me out, insomuch that 
there was obliged to be a guard of soldiers to protect the Presbyter}^ ; 
and it was a thing that made my heart grieve when I heard the drum 
beating and the fife playing as we were going to the kirk. The 
people were really mad and vicious, and flung dirt upon us as we 
passed, and reviled us all, and held out the finger of scorn at me ; but 
T endured it with a resigned spirit, compassionating their wilfulness 
and blindness. Poor old Mr. Kilfuddy of the Braehill got such a 
dash of glar on the side of his face that his eye was almost extinguished. 
When we got to the kirk door it was found to be nailed up, so as 
by no possibility to be opened. The sergeant of the soldiers wanted 
to break it, but I was afraid that the heritors would grudge and com- 
plain of the expense of a new door, and I supplicated him to let it be 
as it was 5 we were therefore obligated to go in by a window, and the 
crowd followed us in the most unreverent manner, making the Lord's 
house like an inn on a fair day, with their grievous gelly-hooing. 
During the time of the psalm and the sermon, they behaved them- 
selves better, but when the induction came on, their clamour was 
dreadful ; and Thomas Thorl the weaver, a pious zealot in that time, 
he got up and protested, and said, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, he 
that eutereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up 
some other way, the same is a thief and a robber." And I thought I 
would have a hard time of it with such an outstrapolous people. Mr. 
Given, that was then the minister of Lugton^ was a jocoose man, and 



732 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Gait. 

would have his joke even at a solemnity. When the laying of the 
hands upon me was a-doing, he could not get near enough to put on 
his, but he stretched out his staff and touched my head, and said, to 
the great diversion of the rest, " This will do well enough, timber to 
timber 3 " but it was an unfriendly saying of Mr. Given, considering 
the time and the place and the temper of my people. 

After the ceremony we then got out at the window, and it was a 
heavy day to mej but we went to the manse, and there we had an 
excellent dinner, which Mrs. Walls, of the new inn of Irville, prepared 
at my request, and sent her chaise-driver to serve, for he was likewise 
her waiter, she having then but one chaise, and that not often called 
for. 

But although my people received me in this unruly manner, I was 
resolved to cultivate civility among them, and therefore, the very next 
morning I began a round of visitations ; bat oh ! it was a steep brae 
that I had to climb, and it needed a stout heart, for I found the doors 
in some places barred against mej in others, the bairns, when they 
saw me coming, ran crying to their mothers, '' Here's the feckless 
Mess-John ! " and then, when I went into the houses, their parents 
wouldna ask me to sit down, but with a scornful way, said, " Honest 
man, what's your pleasure here ? " Nevertheless, I walked about from 
door to door like a dejected beggar, till I got the almous deed of a civil 
reception — and who would have thought it ? — from no less a person 
than the same Thomas Thorl^ that was so bitter against me in the kirk 
on the foregoing day. 

Thomas was standing at the door with his green duffle apron, and 
his red Kilmarnock nightcap — I mind him as well as if it was but 
yesterday — and he had seen me going from house to house, and in 
what manner I was rejected, and his bowels were moved, and he said 
to me in a kind manner, " Come in. Sir, and ease yersel' ; this will 
never do, the clergy are God's gorbies, and for their Master's sake it 
behoves us to respect them. There was no one in the whole parish 
mair against you than mysel' j but this early visitation is a symptom of 
grace that I couldna have expectit from a bird out the nest of patron- 
age." I thanked Thomas and went in with him, and we had some 
solid conversation together, and I told him that it was not so much the 
pastor's duty to feed the flock, as to herd them well j and that although 
there might be some abler with the head than me, there wasna a he 
within the bounds of Scotland more willing to watch the fold by night 
or by day. And Thomas said he had not heard a mair sound observe 
for some time, and that if I held to that doctrine in the poopit, it 
wouldna be lang till I would work a change. " 1 was mindit," (juoth 
he, "never to set my foot within the kirk door while you were there j 



Thirlwall.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 733 

but to testify and no to condemn without a trial, I'll be there next 
Lord's day, and egg my neighbours to be likewise, so ye'll no have to 
preach just to the bare walls and the laird's family." — Annals of the 
Parish, chapter i. 



290.— PLAGUE IN ATHENS AND DEATH OF PERICLES. 

[The Right Rev. Connop Thirlwall, Bishop of St. David's, 1797. 

[The Right Rev. Connop Thirlwall was born at Stepney, Middlesex, February 1 1, 
1797. He was educated at the Charterhouse, and Trinity College, Cambridge, of 
which he became a Fellow. He was called to the Bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1825; 
but three years after he took holy orders and became Rector of Kirby Underdale, 
Yorkshire. He was Tutor of Trinity College in 181 5 ; Craven Scholar and Bell's 
Scholar; and Examiner for the Classical Tripos from 1828 to 1834. In 1840 he 
was made Bishop of St. David's. Bishop Thirlwall is known as a writer by his 
"History of Greece," published originally in Lardner's "Cabinet Cyclopaedia" and 
since in a larger form. In conjunction with the late Archdeacon Hare, he translated 
Niebuhr's " Roman History," and he was one of the editors of the " Cambridge 
' Philological Museum."] 

The general aspect of the city was perhaps more hideous and frightful 
than that of modern cities afflicted by a like calamity. Thucydides 
does not mention any precautions taken by public authority to prevent 
the spreading of the infection. And though such precautions are 
always partially eluded, their entire absence must have cost many lives, 
as well as have filled the city with horrible spectacles. Not only the 
streets and public places, but the sanctuaries which had been occupied 
for shelter, were strewed with corpses ; which when, as frequently 
happened, no friendly hand could be found to burn them, seem to 
have been suffered to lie. And it was observed that neither dogs, nor 
carrion birds, would touch them, and that the latter were not to be 
seen in the city so long as the pestilence lasted. Another consequence 
of this neglect was, that acts of violence were frequently committed 
by the relatives of the deceased, who had not the means of paying 
them the last offices of piety. The funeral pile which had been raised 
for one was pre-occupied by the friends of another j or a strange corpse 
would be thrown upon a pile already burning. But still more dread- 
ful was the sight of the living sufferers, who goaded by their inward 
fever and quenchless thirst, rushed naked out of their dwellings in 
search of water, less that they might drink than that they might 
plunge into it, and thus relieve themselves from both their torments at 
once. Hence the wells and cisterns were always surrounded by a 
crowd of wretches, struggling, or dying, or dead. 

The moral consequences of the plague of Athens were in many 
respects similar to those which have been always witnessed on such 



734 THE EFERY-DAY BOOR [Thirlwall. 

occasions, and which have been so vividly described by Boccaccio, 
Manzoni, and De Foe. The passions of men were freed from the 
usual restraints of law, custom, and conscience, and their characters 
unfolded without reserve or disguise. The urgency of the common 
danger, as it seemed to interrupt all prospects of honourable industry 
and ambition, and to reduce the whole value of life to the enjoyment 
of the passing hour, operated as an assurance of impunity to encourage 
the perpetration of every crime. But at Athens, when the sanctions 
of human laws had lost their terrors, there were no restraints, for the 
multitude at least, sufficient to supply their place. 'The moral influence 
of a religion, which regarded the gods only as the dispensers of tem- 
poral good and evil, was universally relaxed by the calamity which fell 
indiscriminately upon the best and the worst. '^ There seems to have 
been as little of the spirit of benevolence among individuals, as of 
parental solicitude on the part of the state. The only exceptions to 
the general all-engrossing selfishness which are mentioned by Thucy- 
dides, were some persons of extraordinary generosity, who — as he says, 
from a sense of honour — ventured their lives to attend upon their sick 
friends. A striking contrast to the sublime charity, which has made 
the plagues of Milan and of Marseilles bright spots in the history of 

religion and humanity. 

•X- -Jt -x- * * -x- 

But this third year of the war was marked by an event more im- 
portant to Athens and to Greece. In the middle of it,t Pericles was 
carried off by a lingering illness, which was perhaps connected with 
the epidemic, but seems not to have exhibited any of its violent symp- 
toms. Possibly the pestilence only struck him by depriving him of 
his two legitimate sons, his sister, and many of his most valued rela- 
tives and friends. His eldest son Xanthippus was a worthless and un- 
dutiful youth, who, discontented with his father because he refused to 
supply his extravagance, assailed him with ridicule and calumny. His 
death was little to be regretted; but when it was followed by that of 
his more hopeful brother Paralus, the father's firmness, which had 
supported him under his other losses, gave way, and as he placed the 



* Cantacuzenus (u.s.) exhibits only the reverse — a general increase of piety and virtue. 
Yet it seems from the last words of his description (tt /i/) vdw dvidruig elxt, kuI 
dOepaTTtvTujg ri^v ■ij^vxr]'^) that, if he had thought proper, he could have told of some 
exceptions. 

fTwo years and a half after the commencement of the war (Thuc. ii. 65), near the 
end of September or the beginning of October, 429. He was therefore no doubt 
living at the time of the imprudent counsel taken in the affair of Nicias the Cretan, 
though he may have been too ill to attend to public business. He survived the fall of 
Potidaea eight or nine months. 



Maury.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 735 

funeral wreath on the lifeless head, he sobbed aloud, and melted into 
tears. He had still indeed one son remaining, Aspasia's child 3 but he 
was excluded, by the law which Pericles himself had proposed, from 
the privileges of an Athenian citizen, and therefore could not represent 
his father's house. Seeing therefore his name and race threatened with 
extinction — a thought of intolerable bitterness to a Greek — he peti- 
tioned the people to interpose its power. Plutarch says that he wished 
to repeal his own law 5 this was at least unnecessary ; and the people 
conferred an honour as well as a privilege when it legitimated his 
natural son, permitting him to be enrolled in his father's phratry, and 
to take the name of Pericles. It proved a calamitous boon. 

Pericles seems to have died with philosophical composure. He 
allowed the women who attended him to hang a charm round his 
neck J but he showed it with quiet playfulness to a friend, as a sign to 
what a pass his disorder had brought him, when he could submit to 
such trifling. When he was near his end and apparently insensible, 
his friends, gathered round his bed, relieved their sorrow by recalling 
the remembrance of his military exploits, and of the trophies which 
he had raised. He interrupted them, and observed, that they had 
omitted the most glorious praise which he could claim : " Other 
generals had been as fortunate ; but he had never caused an Athenian 
to put on mourning.""^ A singular ground of satisfaction, notwith- 
standing the caution which marked his military career, if he had been 
conscious of having involved his country in the bloodiest war it had 
ever waged. His death was a loss which Athens could not repair. 
Many were eager to step into his place 3 but there was no man able to 
fill it J and the fragments of his power were snatched up by unworthy 
hands. He died, when the caution on which he valued himself was 
more than ever needed to guard Athens from fatal errors 3 and when 
the humanity which breathes through his dying boast, might have 
saved her from her deepest disgrace. — History of Greece, vol. iii., 
chap. XX. 



291.— POWERS OF THE AIR AND THE SEA. 

[Matthew F. Maury, A.R.N., 1806. 
[Matthew F. Maury, astronomer and hydrographer, was born at Spottsylvania, 
Virginia, January 14, 1806. He is the son of Richard Maury, Esq. His parents 



* Plut. Per. 38. The interpretation which Plutarch puts upon these words, — as if 
they referred to the moderation with which he treated his poHtical opponents, — is a 
sign of surprising forgetfulness or inattention : since he records a favourite saying of 
Pericles, which clearly ascertains the meaning of his last words. He used to tell the 
Athenians, that as far as depended on him, as their general, they should be immortal. 



736 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Maury. 



removed to Tennessee when he was three or four years old. In 1825 Matthew 
entered the American navy, and was appointed a midshipman of the Brandywine. 
He joined the Fincennes sloop in the Pacific, and in her circumnavigated the globe, 
commencing his work on navigation while on board her. After his promotion to 
the rank of Lieutenant, he was appointed Astronomer to the South Sea Exploring 
Expedition, under Commander A. Catesby Jones, on whose retirement from the 
command of the expedition Mr. Maury withdrew from it also, and was put in charge 
of the depot of charts and mstruments, which served as a nucleus for the National 
Observatory and Hydrographic Office of the United States, of which he was made 
superintendent. In 1854 Mr. Maury visited England, and excited attention by his 
inquiry into the ocean currents, local winds, &c. In illustration of these subjects he 
published his " Physical Geography of the Sea " (with cha-rts and diagrams) which 
has been translated into several languages. The King of Prussia and the Emperor of 
Austria presented him with gold medals in acknowledgment of his useful labours. 
On the outbreak of the Civil War Captain Maury threw up his appointments and 
joined the Confederates — loyally and ably advocating their cause in the English 
press.] 

We have already said that the atmosphere forms a spherical shell, sur- 
rounding the earth to a depth which is unknown to us, by reason of 
its growing tenuity, as it is released from the pressure of its own super- 
incumbent mass. Its upper surface cannot be nearer to us than 
fifty, and can scarcely be more remote than five hundred miles. It 
surrounds us on all sides, yet we see it not^ it presses on us with a load 
of fifteen pounds on every square inch of surface of our bodies, or 
from seventy to one hundred tons on us in all, yet we do not so much 
as feel its weight. Softer than the finest down, more impalpable than 
the finest gossamer, it leaves the cobweb undisturbed, and scarcely stirs 
the lightest flower that feeds on the dew it supplies -, yet it bears the 
fleets of nations on its wings around the world, and crushes the most 
refractory substances with its weight. When in motion, its force is 
sufficient to level with the earth the most stately forests and stable 
buildings, to raise the waters of the ocean into ridges like mountains, 
and dash the strongest ships to pieces like toys. It warms and cools 
by turns the earth and the living creatures that inhabit it. It draws 
up vapours from the sea and land, retains them dissolved in itself or 
suspended in cisterns of clouds, and throws them down again as rain 
or dew, when they are required. It bends the rays of the sun from 
their path to give us the aurora of the morning and twilight of even- 
ing; it disperses and refracts their various tints to beautify the approach 
and the retreat of the orb of day. But for the atmosphere, sunshine 
would burst on us in a moment and fail us in the twinkling of an eye, 
removing us in an instant from midnight darkness to the blaze of 
noon. We should have no twilight to soften and beautify the land- 
scape, no clouds to shade us from the scorching heat ; but the bald 
earth, as it revolved on its axis, would turn its tanned and weakened 
front to the full unmitigated rays of the lord of day. 



Maury.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. ^2,1 

The atmosphere affords the gas which vivifies and warms our 
frames 5 it receives into itself that which has been polluted by use, and 
is thrown off as noxious. It feeds the flame of life exactly as it does 
that of the fire. It is in both cases consumed, in both cases it affords 
the food of consumption, and in both cases it becomes combined with 
charcoal, which requires it for combustion, and which removes it 
when combustion is over. It is the girdling encircling air that makes 
the whole world kin. The carbonic acid with which body our breath 
ing fills the air, to-morrow seeks its way round the world. The date- 
trees that grow round the falls of the Nile will drink it in by their 
leaves j the cedars of Lebanon will take of it to add to their stature ; 
the cocoa-nuts of Tahiti will grow rapidly upon it 5 and the palms and 
bananas of Japan will change it into flowers. The oxygen we are 
breathing was distilled for us some short time ago by the magnolias of 
the Susquehanna and the great trees that skirt the Orinoco and the 
Amazon ; the giant rhododendrons of the Himalayas contributed to 
it, and the roses and myrtles of Cashmere, the cinnamon-tree of 
Ceylon, and the forest, older than the flood, that lies buried deep in 
the heart of Africa, far behind the mountains of the moon, gave it 
out. The rain we see descending was thawed for us out of the ice- 
bergs which have watched the Polar Star for ages, or it came from 
snows that rested on the summits of the Alps, but which the lotus 
lilies have soaked up from the Nile, and exhaled as vapour again into 
the ever-present air. 

There are processes no less interesting going on in other parts of this 
magnificent field of research. Water is Nature's carrier : with its cur- 
rents it conveys heat away from the torrid zone and ice from the 
frigid ; or, bottling the caloric away in the vesicles of its vapour, it 
first makes it impalpable, and then conveys it, by unknown paths, to 
the most distant parts of the earth. The materials of which the coral 
builds the island, and the sea-conch its shell, are gathered by this rest- 
less leveller from mountains, rocks, and valleys in all latitudes. Some 
it washes down from the mountains of the moon, or out of the gold- 
fields of Australia, or from the mines of Potosi, others from the battle- 
fields of Europe, or from the marble quarries of ancient Greece and 
Rome. These materials, thus collected and carried over falls or down 
rapids, are transported from river to sea, and delivered by the obedient 
waters to each insect and to every plant in the ocean at the right time 
and temperature, in proper form and in due quantity. 

Treating the rocks less gently, it grinds them into dust, or pounds 
them into sand, or rolls and rubs them until they are fashioned intQ 
pebbles, rubble, or boulders 5 the sand and shingle on the sea-shore are 
monuments of the abrading, triturating power of water. By water the 

3B 



738 THE EFTIRY-DAY BOOK [Hollingshead. 

soil has been brought down from the hills and spread out into valleys, 
plains, and fields for man's use. Saving the rocks on which the ever- 
lasting hills are established, everything on the surface of our planet 
seems to have been removed from its original foundation and lodged in 
its present place by water. Protean in shape^ benignant in office, water, 
whether fresh or salt, solid, fluid, or gaseous, is marvellous in its 
powers. 

It is one of the chief agents in the manifold workshops in which 
and by which the earth has been made a habitation fit for man. — The 
Physical Geography of the Sea, chap. i. 



292.— A COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT. 

[John Hollingshead, 1827. 

[John Hollingshead, one of the most distinguished journalists and "Special 
Correspondents " of the day, was born Sept. 9, 1827. Apart from his active pur- 
suits on the daily press, he has contributed much to general literature. As a de- 
scriptive writer, he narrates scenes and events with an almost photographic minute- 
ness, while in many of his essays there is a tenderness, grace, and pathos, which 
strongly remind us of Charles Lamb. " Household Words," " All the Year Round," 
and the " Cornhill Magazine," owe much of their popularity to Mr. Hollingshead's 
contributions. His published volumes are " Under Bow Bells," 1859; "Rubbing 
the Gilt off," i860; "The Ways of Life," 1861 ; and " Ragged London," in 1861 ; 
he is also the author of " The Birthplace of Podgers," a very popular farce, and of 
other dramatic compositions.] 

My name is not unknown to the British public. When I mention 
that I am the author of those powerful letters which appear occasion- 
ally under the signature of Hydrophobius, I need scarcely add that I 
am the celebrated Sweetwort. While writing those letters I was a 
happy man. My privacy was as strictly preserved as that of Junius, 
and probably for the same reason, because my name would then have 
added nothing to the force of my fulminations. In a moment of 
weakness I allowed the veil to be torn asunder. My letters were col- 
lected and published J and, not content with that, to show my versa- 
tility, I gave to the world a collection of poetry, bearing my signature 
at full length, under the title of The Rhododendron, and Other Poems. 
For about three months after the publication of these two volumes I 
had the exciting pleasure of seeing myself torn to pieces by my enemies 
in the daily and weekly critical organs j and the stupefying agony of 
seeing myself defended by my friends in the same channels of public 
instruction. The result of this contest was, that 1 became a literary 
lion. No gathering of wits was considered perfect without me. My 
time, during the week, was divided between dinner parties, evening 



Hollingshead.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 739 

parties, and conversazioni. Occasionally, as I passed along the streets, 
I had the satisfaction of seeing men who were walking together, turn 
round as I went by, and hearing them say to each other hastily : 
" There he is ! That's Sweetwort ! — Hydrophobius, you know I " 

I had lived in this happy state for about six months, when it was 
suddenly found by photographic artists that a public demand existed 
for my portrait. I might have anticipated this natural result of my ex- 
alted position, but I had purposely closed my eyes to it for certain 
reasons of a physical nature. 

My face and head are of that peculiar character, that, under no pos- 
sible combination of lights and attitude could they be agreeable in a 
photographic portrait, or give any correct idea of the original. This, 
however, availed nothing to stem the tide of persecution, which set in, 
gently at first, but gradually increased in power, until it broke down 
every barrier which the forms and decencies of society had raised be- 
fore it. 

The attack was commenced with letters, which came one and two a 
day, three and four, ten, a dozen, even twenty at last, from photo- 
graphic artists, soliciting the favour of a sitting. Some came with bare 
requests , others backed by the recommendations of acquaintances, to 
whom they were allowed to refer 3 others giving a list of what they had 
already done in tlie wide field of literary and artistic portraits. All 
these letters required to be answered according to the rules of business 
and politeness. 

Not always, however, was the request conveyed in writing ; fre- 
quently it gave rise to personal visits of gentlemanly-looking men, who, 
if I was not at home, would not leave their cards, saying it was no 
matter, and they would call again. Some, by great tact and industry, 
obtained an interviev/, and were very difficult to bow out, they were 
so mild and persuasive. A few of the more energetic, when they 
called, were thoroughly prepared to take advantage, if I happened to 
be in one of my moments of weakness. Boys were waiting with the 
necessary apparatus round the corner ; and sometimes the shadow of 
the abominable instrument was cast by the sun-light across my stuiy 
blinds, as I was endeavouring with all the powers at my command to 
get rid of its owner. I was as much attacked by the implements of 
photographic art, as ever an unpopular Irish landlord was by the 
blunderbusses of insolvent tenants. My excited imaguiation saw the 
detestable lens pointed at me in the street, levelled at my dressing- 
room curtain as I went through the task of shaving ; lurking for me 
in by-lanes, and under cover of the trees in the open meadows ; 
stationed even in the very centre of the green-coated German band 
who played their operatic selections before m) breaktast-room window. 

3 B 2 



740 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [I lollin-shead. 

The real or presumed ties of family and kindred were raked up to 
assist in my persecution. 

A full-bearded gentleman of Venetian aspect waited upon me early 
one morning with a letter from an agriculturist stationed in one of the 
most inaccessible parts of Wales begging to introduce the bearer to my 
notice, he being the grandson of some old lady that I was supposed to 
remember, who was the niece of ray mother's aunt by my mother's 
marriage with her first husband before she became the wife of my late 
father. I read the letter, and exhibited a decent degree of cordiality 
to my visitor. I even invited him to dinner, when, to my horror, he 
slowly explained, over the wine, the object of his visit — the old story — 
my portrait. But he did not get it. Oh no ! 

On another occasion, by the carelessness and ignorance of a new 
servant, a shabby sheriffs-officer -looking man was admitted into my 
study, where he immediately took a seat, placing a greasy hat upon 
the floor, containing a red cotton pocket-handkerchief. I awaited his 
pleasure, not being aware that any writs were out against me, or that 
a distress was likely to be put in for rent. He was not long in ex- 
plaining his business. 

**Of course," he began, " as I says to my gov'ner, a gent didn't 
ought to have his val'able time took up without gettin' suffin for it." 

"Sir!" I said, in astonishment. 

"Well," he continued, drowsily, without noticing my remark, "a 
gent's pictur' fetches money — consekently it's worth money — that's 
about the size of it, I think !" 

I gave him no reply, being too much engaged in thinking of the 
uncharitableness of the world, which was probably attributing my 
coyness to interested motives. The photographic professors perhaps 
thought that the proper price for my portrait had not yet been offered 
to me, and had sent this agreeable agent to negotiate the purchase. 

" Come," he added, in what was intended to be a wheedling tone, 
** it's soon over, you know ; only like havin' a tooth out, after all. If 
a gen'elman's a gen'elman, my gov'ner '11 do the thing that's right." 

Whether this man was simply drunk — a paid agent, or a self-con- 
stituted agent, I did not stay to ascertain. At the close of the last 
speech I had him moved bodily out of the house, and I was annoyed 
with no more personal applications for the space of three weeks. 

For the short period of three weeks I was entirely undisturbed, and 
began to comfort myself with the delightful belief that the portrait 
mania, as far as I was concerned, bad at length worked itself out by 
sheer exhaustion, and died quietly away. I was the victim of a miser- 
able self-deception. The calm was only the forerunner of the tempest. 

Entering my study one morning a little earlier than usual, I found 



Honingshead.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 74i 

it, to mj astonishment, in the possession of a tall, stout, determined- 
looking man, who returned my inquiring glance with a steady eye, 
that seemed prepared for everything. A mysterious feeling came over 
me, as I gazed with a kind of fascination upon the stranger, that at 
last I had found my master. He had obtained admission, in defiance 
of my strict instructions, by stepping over the pail and the housemaid, 
as she was cleaning the steps in the morning. Remonstrance, with 
such a man, I seemed to feel was useless, and I allowed him to state his 
business at once,withoutintermpt:on, conscious that no tinie would belost. 

" Xow, sir," he said loudly, in the tone of a policeman w^ho had just 
caught a notorious criminal, '^'you are aware that for some time a 
growing demand has existed for your portrait?" 

I assented silently. 

"You are aware," he continued, calmly, but forcibly, "that, when 
a demand reaches a certain height, it must be supplied ?" 

I again assented with a feeble nod. 

" Good. Look here." 

He drew a picture from his capacious coat-pocket. He placed it in 
my hand. I examined it carefully. It was a marvellous production 
of photographic skill — a beetle-browed man, with the Sunday com- 
plexion of a master chimney-sweep, the lineaments of a churchwarden 
mixed with those of the professional burglar, but whether the church- 
warden turned burglar or the burglar turned churchwarden, it was im- 
possible to determine. 

" Know that person ?" asked my visitor. 

I replied that I did not. 

"Bill Tippets — the Lambeth Phenomenon." 

" Of the prize-ring ?" 

" Of the prize-ring." 

I returned the portrait of Bill Tippets. 

"Xow," continued my \isitor, "I'm a practical man. I've got an 
order for two thousand copies of your portrait for home consumption, 
and fifteen hundred for exportation. I don't w^ant to do anything 
odensive ; but, knowing your objection to sit for a photograph, I have 
been compelled to look amongst my stock for something like you, and 
I can find nothing so near the mark as Bill Tippets." 

A cold perspiration came over me : the practical man had got me 
in his power. 

" This order for two thousand copies of your likeness for home con- 
sumption, and fifteen hundred for exportation," he resumed, " must be 
executed within ten days, and I can only give you till ten o'clock to- 
morrow morning to dec'Je. At that hour I must know whether it is 
to be Bill Tippets, or Mr. Edgar Sweetwort. Good morning." 



742 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hood. 

Long before the appointed hour I was sitting helplessly, under a 
broiling sun, in a glass cage upon the tiles of an elevated house near 
the Haymarket, W., composing my countenance according to the im- 
perious instructions of the relentless photographer. — IVays of Life. 



293.— HOME AT LAST. 

. [Tom Hood, 1835, 

[Genius is seldom hereditaty, nevertheless the talent of Thomas Hood appears to have 
descended in a slightly varied form to his son. Tom Hood, — editor of " Fun,'' and 
author of " Pen and Pencil Sketches," " Quips and Cranks," " Daughters of King 
Daher, and other Poems," "A Disputed Inheritance," "Golden Heart," "Lost 
Link," and numerous other works, was born at Lake House, Wanstead, Essex, 
January 19, 1835. He was educated at University College School and Louth 
Grammar School, and entered as a Commoner at Pembroke College, Oxford, in 
1853, where he passed all the examinations for the degrees, but did not put on the 
gown of a B.A. Tom Hood is an aitist as well as an author. He has illustrated 
his father's comic verses, ** Precocious Peggy," and other works. He is a contributor 
to the magazines, and has had some experience as a journalist.] 

Sister Mary, come and sit 

Here beside me in the bay 

Of the window — ruby-lit 

With the last gleams of the day. 

Steeped in crimson through and through 

Glow the battlements of vapour 3 

While above them, in the blue, 

Hesper lights his tiny taper. 

Look ! the rook flies westward, darling. 

Flapping slowly over head ; 

See, in dusky clouds the starling 

Whirring to the willow bed. 

Through the lakes of mist, that lie 

Breast-deep in the fields below. 

Underneath the darkening sky 

Home the weary reapers go. 

Peace and rest, at length have come. 
All the day's long toil is past -, 
And each heart is whispering " Home — 
Home at last!" 

Mary ! in your great grey eyes 
I can see the long-represt 
Grief, whose earnest look denies 
That to-night each heart's at rest. 



Hood.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 743 

Twelve long years ago you parted — 

He to India went alone ; 

Young and strong and hopeful-hearted — 

'' Oh, he would not long be gone." 

Twelve long years have lingered by ; 

Youth, and strength and hope have fled, 

Lite beneath an Indian sky 

Withers limb and whitens head 5 

But his faith has never faltered, 

Time his noble heart has spared j 

Yet, dear, he is sadly altered — 

So he writes me. Be prepared! 

I have news — good news I He says— 

In this hurried note and short — 

That his ship, ere many days. 

Will be anchored safe in port. 

Courage I — Soon, dear, will he come — 

Those few days will fly so fast j 

Yes ! he's coming, Mary — Home — 

Home at last. 
******* 

Idle words ! — ^yet strangely fit ! 

In a vessel, leagues away. 

In the cabin, ruby-lit 

By the last gleams of the day. 

Calm and still the loved one liesj 

Never tear of joy or sorrow 

Shall unseal those heavy eyes — 

They will ope to no to-morrow. 

Folded hands upon a breasc 

Where no feverish pulses flutter. 

Speak of an unbroken rest. 

That no earthly tongue may utter. 

And a sweet smile seems to grow — 

Seems to hover on the lip 

As the shadows come and go 

With the motion of the ship. 

Rest and Peace at length hav^e come — 
Rest and Peace how deep and vast ; 
Weary wanderer — truly Home — 
Home at last. 
Daughters of King Daher, and other Poems. 



m 



744 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Jones. 



294.— COMPARISON BETWEEN THE WORLD AND THE CHURCH. 

[Rev. Wm. Jones, of Nayland, 1726 — 1801. 

[The Rev. William Jones was born at Lowick, Northamptonshire, 1726, and 
educated at the Charter House, and University College, Oxford, where he obtained 
an exhibition. His first curacy was that of Finedon, Northamptonshire, where he 
wrote his answer to Bishop Clayton's Essay on Spirit. In 1764 he was presented 
to Bethersden Vicarage, Kent ; afterwards he resided at Nayland, Suffolk, till the ele- 
vation of Dr. Home to the See of Norwich, when he became domestic chaplain to 
his venerable friend. In 1798, he was presented by the archbishop to the living of 
HoUingbourne, Kent. He afterwards held Piuckley Rectory, Kent, which he ex- 
changed for Paston, Northamptonshire. This excellent divine died in 1801. His 
chief works are " Catholic Doctrine of the Trinity," " Discourses on the Natural 
Philosophy of the Elements," "The Scholar Armed" — tracts for the times, during 
the troubled period of the French Revolution; Sermons; Essays, &c. and 
" Memoirs of Bishop Home." 

Two things of a contrary nature are best understood when they are 
placed near to one another, or compared together in the mind. The 
summer is better understood, and more to be valued, when we com- 
pare it with the winter 3 a season in which so many comforts are want- 
ing, which the summer affords us. The blessings of government are 
more acceptable, when compared with the miseries of anarchy. We 
have the like advantage, when we compare together the Church and 
the World, those two societies of which we are members : of the 
World by our natural birth 5 of the Church by our spiritual birth in 
Baptism. When we are admitted into the Christian covenant, we re- 
nounce this world as a wicked world, and become members of the 
Church, which is called the holy Church. Both these societies are in- 
fluential on those who belong to them^ the one corrupts, the other 
sanctifies ; therefore it is of the last importance to mankind to consider 
and understand the difference between them. 

If we ask, why the world is called wicked, we shall find it to be 
such from the nature and manners of its inhabitants : for the world, 
as it means the system of the visible creation, can have no harm in it. 
There can be no wickedness, where there is no moral agency nor free- 
dom of action. 

From the sin of Adam, and the effects of his fall, the state of man by 
nature is a state of sin. The Scripture is so express in this, that it is not 
necessary to insist upon it. A disposition to evil comes into the world 
with every man, and is as a seed, which brings forth its fruit throughout 
the course of his life. Many evil passions disturb and agitate his mind j 
and from the ignorance or darkness which prevails in him, he knows 
not that he is to resist them in order to his peace and happiness, nor 
hath he ability so to do, if he did know it. The worst and the most 
violent of all his passions is pride, which affects superiority, and delights 



Jones.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 745 

in vain show and pompous distinction - whether it be that of wealth, 
or honour, or wisdom. Covetousness disposes him to take all he can 
to himself, and paj no regard to the wants of others ; whence the 
state of nature is a state of war, in which men plunder and destroy 
one another 5 not knowing the way of peace, which consists only w^ith 
restraint, and must be taught them from above ; '' the way of peace 
have they not known," saith the Scripture. 

Man knows all things by education, bat nothing by nature, except, 
as the Apostle saith, what *'he knoweth naturally, as a brute beast." 
The w^orld, as we see it now, is under the restraint of laws, which in 
some countries are better in themselves and better executed than in 
others : but if there were no laws, and no governments to execute 
them, then we should see what a scene of destruction and misery this 
world would be, through the sinfulness of man's nature. Fraud, 
rapine, and cruelty, those three dreadful monsters, make strange havoc 
amongst us, notwithstanding the law and regulations of society : what 
then would this w^orld be w^ithout them ? 

With respect to God, the state of man is a state of rebellion, aliena- 
tion, and condemnation. His ways are so opposite to the will of God, 
that he is said to be at enmity with Him. He has no alliance with his 
Maker, either as a child, a subject, or a servant 3 but being under a 
general law of disobedience, can inherit nothing from God but wrath 
and punishment. 

You will see this account verified by the plainest declarations of the 
Scripture. First, as to the enmity of the world against God. " If tlie 
w^orld hate you," saith oar Lord when he came to save it, " je know 
that it hated Me before it hated yon." Secondly, as to their alienation 
or departure from all alliance with Him. " You that were some time 
alienated and enemies in your minds by wicked works," saith St. Paul:"* 
and again, speaking of the natural state of the Ephesians before their 
conversion, he describes them as " aliens and strangers from the 
covenants of promise, having no hope, and without God in the 
world j " in which passage there is something farther than appears from 
the sound of the words, for w^hen we read, '' without God in the 
world," the words, ''in the world," are emphatical, and denote this 
wicked world, such as we have been describing it, of which they that 
are members, must of course be without God, and without hope : they 
belong to a society which knows Him not. 

Then, thirdly, that the world is under condemnation. " We are 
chastened of the Lord," saith St. Paul, "that we should not be con- 
demned with thew^orld;" w^hence it is evident that the world, as 



* Col. i. 12. 



^46 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[Jones, 



such, is under condemnation, and can expect nothing of God, but 
punishnaent for sin. 

***** -x- 

Such then is the world, and such are we all, so far as we are mem- 
bers of it. God therefore, of His infinite mercy, takes us out of this 
wicked society, and translates us into another. He " delivers us from 
the power of darkness, and translates us into the kingdom of His dear 
Son ; "* and without this translation we are inevitably lost. You are 
here to observe, that the kingdom of Christ is one of the names of His 
Church ; and they that are in it, as it is distinguished from the world, 
are called children of the kingdom. Its nature is totally different from 
the kingdom of this world (of which we shall see more hereafter) j 
for as the world is called wicked, so the Church is called holy, and all 
the holiness that can be in a man must be derived from thence. If 
we inquire how, and in what respects, the Church is holy, we find it 
must be so from its relation to God. It is called the Church of God, 
and He being holy, everything that belongs to Him must be so of 
course. And further, it is a society, or body, of which the Holy 
Spirit is the life ; and this life being communicated to those who are 
taken into the Church, they are thereby made partakers of an holy 
life, which is elsewhere called the life of God; from which life they 
are alienated ^f/ho are out of this society. It is holy in its Sacraments j 
our Baptism is an holy Baptism from the Holy Spirit of God : the 
Lord's Supper is an holy sacrifice : the ordinance of Absolution is for 
the forgiveness of past sin, that the members of the Church may be 
recovered from sin to a state of holiness and peace with God. The 
Church is holy in its Priesthood, all the offices of which are for the 
sanctification of the people. 

The contrary nature of the two societies I have been speaking of 
will now be better understood, when they are compared together. In 
the one, men are in a lost condition; in the other, they are in a state 
of salvation ; for as the world is alienated from God, the Church is in 
alliance and covenant with Him, and partaker of His promises. As 
the world is under condemnation, the Church is under grace, and 
pardon of sin ; its Baptism washes away original sin, and gives a new 
birth to purity and righteousness; its other Sacrament of the Lord's 
Supper maintains that spiritual life which is begun at Baptism, as 
meat and drink support the life we receive at our natural birth. As 
the world is without hope, the Christian hath hope in death, through 
the resurrection of Christ, and is assured that he who is united to the 
life of God can never die : for God is not the God of the dead, but of 



* Col. i. 13. 



Phillips.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. U7 

the living. Wiiile the wicked are to perish with the world which they 
inhabit, the children of God are heirs with Christ of an eternal kingdom. 
The church is also holy, when by the word church we understand 
the building or place in which the people assemble to accomplish the 
service of God : as the world, on the other hand, hath always had its 
unholy places of assembly, its theatre, its idol temples, &c., which un- 
sanctify and pollute those who frequent them. Under the Jewish 
state of the Church, the temple is called the holy temple, or holy place 
(Heb.) ; and a part of it was called the most holy place. Our Saviour 
allows that the temple sanctified the gold which was offered in it, and 
consequently all other offerings and sacrifices there made. Now, if that 
temple was holy, whose glory was to be done away, certainly the place 
of Christian worship, called the church, must be holy also. For why 
was the temple at Jerusalem holy, but because the presence of God 
attended it ? And has He not promised to be in the midst of us ? 
A.nd must not our churches therefore be holy upon the same account ? 
And are they not guilty of a great sin who treat any church with 
irreverence ; much more if they despise or defile it ? For it is said, 
** he that defileth the temple of God, him shall God destroy." — An 
Essay on the Church, 1760. 



295.— A CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

[Charles P. Phillips, 1787 — 1860. 

[Mr. Phillips, the celebrated orator and pleader, was born at Sligo, 1787; he went 
to Dublin University (1802), where he took the degree of B.A., and was called to 
the Irish bar in 18 11. In 182 1 he was called to the English bar, and, the fame of 
his eloquence having preceded him, he soon rose into note. In 1842 he was 
appointed a Commissioner of Bankruptcy at Liverpool by Lord Lyndliurst, and in 
1846 a Commissioner of Insolvent Debtors, which office he held until his death. 
He is the author of " The Life and Oratory of Curran," and a collection of his 
speeches (edited by himself) was published 8vo, 1822.] 

He is fallen ! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, 
which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terri- 
fied the glance its magnificence attracted. 

Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptred 
hermit, wrapt in the solitude of his own originahty. 

A mind bold, independent, and decisive — a will, despotic in its dic- 
tates — an energy that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to 
every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary 
character — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this 
world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell. 

Flung into hfe, in the midst of a Revolution that quickened every 



«i 



'If 

It™ 



748 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Phillips. 

energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, he commenced his 
course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity ! 

With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he 
rushed into the lists where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed 
themselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance of 
destiny. He knew no motive but interest — he acknowledged no 
criterion but success — he worshipped no God but ambition, and with 
an eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to 
this, there was no creed that he did not profess, there was no opinion 
that he did not promulgate j in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the 
crescent ; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross : the 
orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic j 
and with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and 
the tribune, he reared the fabric of his despotism. 

A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the Pope; a pretended patriot, 
he impoverished the country ; and in the name of Brutus,* he grasped 
witliout remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Caesars ! 

Through this pantomime of his policy, Fortune played the clown to 
his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, systems 
vanished, the wildest theories took the colour of his whim, and all that 
was venerable, and all that was novel, changed places with the rapidity 
of a drama. Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of victory 
— his flight from Egypt confirmed his destiny — ruin itself only elevated 
him to empire. 

But if his fortune was great, his genius was transcendant j decision 
flashed upon his councils ; and it was the same to decide and to per- 
ibrm. To inferior intellects, his combinations appeared perfectly im-^ 
possible, his plans perfectly impracticable 5 but, in his hands, simplicity 
marked their development^ and success vindicated their adoption. 

His person partook the character of his mind — if the one never 
yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in the field. 

Nature had no obstacles that he did not surmount — space no oppo- 
sition that he did not spurn 3 and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian 
sands, or polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, and empowered 
with ubiquity ! The whole continent of Europe trembled at behold- 
ing the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. 
Scepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance ; romance as- 
sumed the air of history ; nor was there aught too incredible for belief, 
or too fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of 
Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All 



* In his hypocritical cant after liberty, in the commencement of the Revolution, he 
assumed the name of " Brutus." — Proh pudor ! 



Phillips.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 749 

the visions of antiquity became commonplaces in his contemplation j 
kings were his people — nations were his outposts ; and he disposed of 
cour:s, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, as if they 
were the titular dignitaries ot the chess-board ! 

Amid all these changes he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered 
little whether in the field or the drawing-room — with the mob or the 
levee — wearing the Jacobin bonnet or the iron crown — banishing a 
Braganza, or espousing a Hapsbarg — dictating peace on a raft to the 
Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic — he 
was still the same military despot ! 

Cradled in the camp, he was to the last hour the darling of the army ; 
and whether in the camp or the cabinet, he never forsook a friend or 
forgot a favour. Of all his soldiers, not one abandoned him, till atfection 
was useless, and their first stipulation was for the safety of their favourite. 

They knew well that if he was lavish of them, he was prodigal of 
himself J and that if he exposed them to peril, he repaid them with 
plunder. For the soldier, he subsidized everybody j to the people he 
made even pride pay tribute. The victorious veteran glittered with 
his gains ; and the capital, gorgeous with the spoils of art, became the 
miniature metropolis of the universe. In this wonderful combination, 
his atFectation of literature roust not be omitted. The gaoler of the 
press, he affected the patronage of letters — the proscriber of books, he 
encouraged philosophy — the persecutor of authors, and the murderer 
of printers, he yet pretended to the protection of learning ! — the assassin 
of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and the denouncer of Kotzebue, he 
was the friend of David, the benefactor of De Lille, and sent his 
academic prize to the philosopher of England.* 

Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such an in- 
dividual consistency, were never united in the same character. A 
Royalist — a Republican and an Emperor — a Mahometan — a Catholic 
and a patron of the Synagogue — a Subaltern and a Sovereign — a 
Traitor and a Tyrant — a Christian and an Infidel — he was, through all 
his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, inflexible original — the 
same mysterious, incomprehensible self — the man without a model, 
and without a shadow. 

His fall, like his life, baffled all speculation. In short, his whole 
history was like a dream to the world, and no man can tell how or why 
he was awakened from the reverie. 

Such is a faint and feeble picture of Napoleon Bonaparte, the first 
Emperor of the French. 

That he has done much evil there is little doubt : that he has been 



* To Sir Humphry Davy he transmitted the first prize of the Academy of Sciences. 



750 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Hughes. 



the origin of much good, there is just as Httle. Through his means, 
intentional or not, Spain, Portugal, and France have risen to the bless- 
ings of a free constitution ; Superstition has found her grave in the ruins 
of the Inquisition, and the feudal system, with its whole train of 
tyrannic satelhtes, has fled for ever. Kings may learn from him that 
their safest study, as well as their noblest, is the interest of the people ; 
the people are taught by him that there is no despotism so. stupendous 
against which they have not a resource ; and to those who would rise 
upon the ruins of both, he is a living lesson that if ambition can raise 
them from the lowest station, it can also prostrate them from the 
highest. — Speeches. 1822. 



m 



296.— HOW THE TIDE TURNED. 

[Thomas Hughes, M.A., M.P., 1823. 
[Mr. Hughes was born at Donnington Priory, near Newbury, Berks, October 20, 
1823. He was educated at Rugby, when that most famous among our public 
schools was under the sway of Dr. Arnold. To the recollection of his schoolboy 
days we owe one of the most charming books that has ever been placed in the hands 
of youth, and from which even "children of larger growth"' may learn lessons of 
deep import — viz., " Tom Brown's School Days " — or rather Thomas Hughes', 
under a thin veil of fiction. Mr. Hughes entered at Oriel College, Oxford, in 1841 j 
studied at Lincoln's Inn, and was called to the bar in 1848. His " School Days" 
was published in 1856, his " Scouring of the White Horse" in 1858, and "Tom 
Brown at College" in " Macmillan's Magazine." He is also the author of several 
Tracts and critical Essays.] 

I HAVE already described the School-house prayers j they were the 
same on the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused 
by the absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys 
who stood all together at the further table — of all sorts and sizes, like 
young bears with all their troubles to come, as Tom's father had said 
to him when he was in the same position. He thought of it as he 
looked at the line, and poor little sHght Arthur standing with them, 
and as he was leading him upstairs to Number 4, directly after 
prayers, and showing him his bed. It was a huge high airy room, with 
two large windows looking on to the School close. There were 
twelve beds in the room. The one in the furthest corner by the fire- 
place, occupied by the sixth-form boy, who was responsible for the dis- 
cipline of the room, and the rest by boys in the lower-fifth and other 
junior forms, all fags (for the fifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in 
rooms by themselves). Being fags, (the eldest of them was not more 
than about sixteen years old,) they were all bound to be up and in bed 
by ten 5 the sixth-form boys came to bed from ten to a quarter-past 
(at which time the old verger came round to put the candles out), ex- 
cept when they sat up to read. 



Hughes.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 751 

Within a few minutes therefore of their entry, all the other boys 
who slept in Number 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly 
to their own beds, and began undressing and talking to each other in 
whispers j while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting 
about on one another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. 
Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. 
The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never 
crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. 
He could hardly bear to take his jacket off j however, presently, with 
an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who 
was sitting at the bottom of his bed talking and laughing. 

"Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands ?" 

"Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring j "that's your wash- 
hand-stand, under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to 
go down for more water in the morning if you use it all." And on 
he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the 
beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby draw- 
ing for a moment on himself the attention of the room. 

On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and 
undressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked round more 
nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in 
bed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned 
clear, the noise went on. It was a tiying moment for the poor little 
lonely boy; however, this time he didn't ask Tom what he might or 
might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done 
every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth 
the cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong 
man in agony. 

Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that 
his back was towards Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, 
and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three 
boys laughed and sneered, and a big brutal fellow, who was standing 
in the middle of the room, picked up a slipper, and shied it at the 
kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw 
the whole, and the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew 
straight at the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his 
arm and catch it on his elbow. 

" Confound you. Brown, what's that for ?" roared he, stamping with 
pain. 

" Never mind what I mean," said Tom> stepping on to the floor, 
every drop of blood in his body tingling ; " if any fellow wants the 
other boot, he knows how to get it." 

What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the 



754 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hughes. 

sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom 
and the rest rushed into bed and finished the unrobing there, and the 
old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in another 
minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door with his 
usual " Good night, gen'l'm'n." 

There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was 
taken to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted 
the pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood 
of memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him 
from thinking or resolving, His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and 
he could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing 
about the room. Then the thought of his own mother came 
across him, and the promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never 
to forget to kneel by his bedside, and give himself up to his Father, 
before he laid his head on the pillow, from which it might never rise; 
and he lay down gently and cried as if his heart would break. He 
was only fourteen years old. 

It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a 
little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years 
later, when Arnold's manly piety had begun to leaven the school, the 
tables turned ; before he died, in the School-house at least, and I 
believe in the other houses, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom 
had come to school in other times. The first few nights after he came 
he did not kneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the 
candle was out, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some 
one should find him out. So did many another poor little fellow. 
Then he began to think that he might just as well say his prayers in 
bed, and then that it didn't matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, 
or lying down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all 
who will not confess their Lord before men ; and for the last year he 
had probably not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times. 

Poor Tom ! the first and bitterest feeling which was like to break his 
heart, was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others 
which he loathed was brought in and burned in on his own soul. He 
had lied to his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he 
bear it ? And then the poor little weak boy whom he had pitied and 
almost scorned for his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as 
he was, dared not do. The first dawn of comfort came to him in 
swearing to himself that he would stand by that boy through thick 
and thin, and cheer him, and help him, and bear his burdens, for the 
good deed done that night. Then he resolved to write home next day 
and tell his mother all, and what a coward her son had been. And 
then peace came to him as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony 



Mallet.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 753 

next morning. The morning would be harder than the night to begin 
with, but he felt that he could not afford to let one chance slip. 
Several times he faltered, for the devil showed him first, all his old 
friends calling him "Saint" and "Square-toes," and a dozen hard 
names, and whispered to him that his motives would be misunderstood, 
and he would only be left alone with the new boy ; whereas it was his 
duty to keep all means of influence, that he might do good to the 
largest number. And then came the more subtle temptation, " Shall 
I not be showing myself braver than others by doing this ? Have I 
any right to begin it now ? Ought T not rather to pray in my own 
study, letting other boys know that I do so, and trying to lead them to 
it, while in public at least I should go on as I have done ? " However, 
his good angel was too strong that night, and he turned on his side and 
slept, tired of trying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse 
which had been so strong, and in which he had found peace. 

•X- * * -x- -x- * 

He found too how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be pro- 
duced by his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh when 
he knelt down, but this passed off soon, and one by one all the other 
boys but three or four followed the lead. I fear that this was in some 
measure owing to the fact, that Tom could probably have thrashed any 
boy in the room except the praeposter 5 at any rate, every boy knew 
that he would try upon very slight provocation, and didn't choose to 
run the risk of a hard fight because Tom Brown had taken a fancy to 
say his prayers. Some of the small boys of Number 4 communicated 
the new state of things to their chums, and in several other rooms the 
poor little fellows tried it on ; in one instance or so, where the prae- 
poster heard of it and interfered very decidedly, with partial success 3 but 
in the rest, after a short struggle, the confessors were bullied or laughed 
down, and the old state of things went on for some time longer. Before 
either Tom Brown or Arthur left the School-house, there was no room 
in which it had not become the regular custom. I trust it is so still, 
and that the old heathen state of things has gone out for ever. — Torn 
Brown s School-days. 

297.— ODIN. 

[Mallet, translated by Dr. Thomas Percy, 1728 — 181 1. 

[Thomas Percy, D.D., was born in Shropshire, 1728. He was educated at Oxford, 

He was an antiquarian and accomplished translator. To him we are indebted for 

the'* Reliques of Ancient Poetry," " The Northumberland Household Book," and the 

translation of Mallet's valuable "Northern Antiquities."* Dr. Percy was ordained 

* M. Mallet was the tutor of the unhappy Christian VII. of Denmark. He was 
engaged by Frederick V. to write a history of Denmark in French ; the "Antiquities'* 
were the two prefatory volumes to it, and have gained a European celebrity. 

^ c 



754 



THE EVERY-DAY BOOK 



[Mallet. 



ill 

\ 



m 



Bishop of Dromore in 1782; from that time he ceased writing, and devoted himself 
wholly to the duties of his diocese. He died in Ireland in 181 1.] 

The Roman Commonwealth was arrived at the highest pitch of 
power, and saw all the then known world subject to its laws, when 
an unforeseen event raised up enemies against it, from the very bosom 
of the forests of Scythia, and on the banks of the Tanais. Mithridates, 
by flying, had drawn Pompey after him into those deserts. The king 
of Pontus sought there for refuge, and new means of vengeance. He 
hoped to arm against the ambition of Rome all the barbarous nations, 
his neighbours, whose liberty she threatened. He succeeded in this at 
lirst ; but all those people, ill united as allies, ill armed as soldiers, and 
still worse disciplined, were forced to yield to the genius of Pompey. 
Odin is said to have been of this number. He was obliged to with- 
draw himself by flight from the vengeance of the Romans 3 and to go 
and seek in countries unknown to his enemies that safety which he 
could no longer find in his own. His true name was Sigge, son of 
Fridulph 5 but he assumed that of Odin, who was the Supreme God 
among the Teutonic nations ; either in order to pass among his fol- 
lowers for a man inspired by the Gods, or because he was chief priest, 
and presided over the worship paid to that deity. We know that it 
was usual with many nations to give their pontiffs the name of the 
God they worshipped. Sigge, full of his ambitious projects, we may 
be assured, took care to avail himself of a title so proper to procure him 
respect among the people he meant to subject. 

Odin, for so we shall hereafter call him, commanded the jiEsir, 
whose country must have been situated between the Pontus Euxinus 
and the Caspian Sea. Their principal city w^as Asgard. The worship 
there paid to their supreme God was famous throughout the circum- 
jacent countries. Odin, having united under his banners the youth of 
the neighbouring nations, marched towards the north and west of 
Europe, subduing, we are told, all the people he found in his passage, 
and giving them to one or other of his sons for subjects. Many 
sovereign families of the north are said to be descended from these 
princes. Thus Horsa and Hengist, the chiefs of those Saxons who 
conquered Britain in the fifth century, counted Odin, or Wodin, in 
the number of their ancestors j it was the same with the other Anglo- 
Saxon princes ; as well as the greatest part of those of Lower Germany 
and the north. But there is reason to suspect that all these genealogies, 
which have given birth to so many insipid panegyrics and frivolous 
researches, are founded upon a mere equivoque, or double meaning of 
the word Odin. This word signified, as we have seen above, the 
Supreme God of the Teutonic nations ; we know also that it was 
customary with all the heroes of these nations to speak of themselves 



Mallet.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 755 

as sprung from their divinities, especially their god of war. The his- 
torians of those times, that is to say the poets, never failed to bestow 
the same honour on all those whose praises they sung : and thus they 
multiplied the descendants of Odin^ or the Supreme God, as much as 
ever they found convenient. 

After having disposed of so many countries, and confirmed and 
settled his new governments, Odin directed his course towards Scandi- 
navia, passing through Cimbria^ at present Holstein and Jutland. 
These provinces, exhausted of inhabitants, made him no resistance 3 
and shortly after he passed into Fiinen, which submitted as soon as 
ever he appeared- He is said to have stayed a long time in this agree- 
able island, where he built the city of Odensee, wiiich still preserves in 
its name the memory of its founder. Hence he extended his arms 
over all the north. He subdued the rest of Denmark, and made his 
son Skjold be received there as king 3 a title which, according to the 
Icelandic annals, no person had ever borne before, and which passed 
to his descendants, called after his name Skjoldungians -, if this name 
was not rather given them on account of the shield, which they were 
accustomed to bear, for this is called Skjold in the Danish language to 
this day. Odin, who was apparently better pleased to give crowns to 
his children than to wear them himself, afterwards passed into Sweden, 
where at that time reigned a prince named Gylfi, who persuaded that 
the author of a new worship consecrated by conquests so brilliant, 
could not be of the ordinary race of mortals, paid him great honours, 
and even worshipped him as a divinity. By favour of this opinion, 
which the ignorance of that age led men easily to embrace, Odin 
quickly acquired in Sweden the same authority he had obtained in 
Denmark. The Swedes came in crowds to do him homage, and by 
common consent bestowed the regal title and office upon his son Yngiv 
and his posterity. Hence sprung the Ynglingians, a name by which 
the kings of Sweden were for a long time distinguished. Gylfi died, 
or was forgotten. Odin governed with absolute dominion. He 
enacted new laws, introduced the customs of his own country, and 
established at Sigtuna (a city at present destroyed, situate in the same 
province with Stockholm) a supreme council or tribunal, composed of 
twelve pontifis or judges. Their business was to watch over the public 
weal; to distribute justice to the people, to preside over the new 
worship, which Odin brought with him into the north, and to preserve 
faithfully the religious and magical secrets which that prince deposited 
with them. He was quickly acknowledged as a sovereign and a god 
by all the petty kings among whom Sweden was then divided j and he 
levied an impost or poll-tax upon every head through the whole 
country. He engaged on his part to defend the inhabitants against ail 

3 c 2 



^5^ THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Buckingham. 

their enemies, and to defray the expense of the worship rendered to 
the gods at Sigtuna. 

These great acquisitions seem not, however, to have satisfied his 
ambition. The desire of extending farther his religion, his authority, 
and his glory, caused him to undertake the conquest of Norway. His 
good fortune or address followed him thither, and this kingdom quickly 
obeyed a son of Odin named Saeming, whom they have taken care to 
make head of a family, the different branches of which reigned for a 
long time in that country. 

After he had finished these glorious achievements, Odin retired into 
Sweden j where, perceiving his end to draw near, he would not wait 
till the consequences of a lingering disease should put a period to that 
life which he had so often bravely hazarded in the field ; but assembling 
the friends and companions of his fortune, he gave himself nine wounds 
in the form of a circle with the point of a lance, and many other cuts 
in his skin with his sword. As he was dying, he declared he was 
going back to Asgard to take his seat among the other gods at an 
eternal banquet, where he would receive with great honours all who 
should expose themselves intrepidly in battle, and die bravely with 
their swords in their hands. As soon as he had breathed his last, they 
carried his body to Sigtuna, where, conformably to a custom intro- 
duced by him into the north, his body was burnt with much pomp 
and magnificence. 

Such was the end of this man, whose death was as extraordinary 
as his life.' — Northern Antiquities, chap. iii. 



298.— CARAVAN IN THE DESERT. 

[J. S. Buckingham, 1786 — 1855. 
[James Silk Buckingham was born at Flushing, near Falmouth, Cornwall, in 1786. 
He rose from humble circumstances to represent Sheffield in Parliament from 1832 
to 1837. He was a celebrated traveller, and established the Oriental Herald, 
which was the precursor of the Alhenceum. In 1816 he established a journal in 
Bengal, but on account of the freedom of his criticisms on the local government, he was 
expelled from the presidency. The East India Company afterwards allowed him 
a pension. He also received a literary pension of 200/. per annum from the 
Civil List. He died in London in 1855.] 

During the recent expedition of Mohammed Ali Pacha, the Viceroy 
of Egypt, against the Wahabees of the Hedjaz, his highness was de- 
tained in the Holy Land of the Mohammedans a longer period than 
he had anticipated on his first setting out for the war. Neither the 
tomb of the Prophet at Medina, nor the temple of the Faithful at 
Mecca, could console him for the loss of his harem, which he had 



Buckingham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 757 

left behind him at the Egyptian capital, in the hope of his speedy 
return to the palace in which they were immured. He had accordingly 
sent off expresses by the fleetest dromedaries, commanding the whole 
of his wives and their attendants to be brought to him ; and a large 
caravan being about to be formed, for the purpose of accompanying 
and convoying them on their route, I availed myself of this favourable 
opportunity to cross the Desert of Suez under its protection 3 and after the 
usual preparations for such a journey, encamped with the rest on the 
banks of the Buket-el-Hadji, or the Lake of the Pilgrims, a few miles 
from Cairo, which forms the grand rendezvous at which all the scattered 
elements of the caravans are finally united, and from whence they set 
out in the order necessary for their security. 

At noon the first signal gun for loading was fired, when all was 
bustle and confusion ; and the breaking-up of the tents, harnessing 
the animals to the clumsy carriages constructed for the conveyance of 
the Pacha's wives and principal slaves, loading the camels which had 
all been watered at the lake in the morning, arranging the stations of 
the Turkish cavalry as guards, &c., occupied all parties until nearly 
four o'clock in the afternoon. 

At length, on the firing of a second gun, the whole caravan was put 
in motion, and commenced its march in the following order : — An 
advanced guard of horsemen (at the head of whom was the "Emir-el- 
Hadji, or Prince of the Pilgrims," a title given to the chief conductor 
of the caravan), kept their station two or three miles ahead, so as to 
be almost always within sight, except when hidden from the view by a 
hollow in the sands, of which there are many, resembling the space left 
between two succeeding billows in a tempest 3 and as vessels sink 
between the rising waves, so as to be lost for a moment from the sight 
of those around them, so even on this desert plain the same effect is 
produced by many furrows, which intercept its otherwise level surface. 
In front of the caravan, and immediately preceding it, was a six-pound 
iron cannon, very loosely fitted as a field-piece, on a heavy car, and 
drawn by four horses. On each side of this were parties of about 
twenty horsemen in each, whose province it appeared to be to keep an 
equal line, by riding up and down the breadth of the front, and 
checking those who were too far advanced, as well as bringing up 
by a quicker pace those who appeared to tarry behind. Following in 
succession came separate trains of camels, some of which contained 
more than fifty animals in a line. In the centre a large space was left 
for the harem of the Pacha, the principal personages of which were 
conveyed each in a separate vehicle, resembling an Indian palanquin, 
closed- on all sides round with hollow lattice work, very gaudily 
painted and gilded, and borne between two camels. 



758 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Buckingham. 

All the attendant females, whether companions, servants, or slaves, 
were borne on camels in a kind of tented pannier, one of them sus- 
pended on each side of the animal, so that the pair of tents contained 
two persons, who faced each other, and were sheltered from the sun 
by the canvas, which at once covered them and curtained them from 
the prying eyes of curious passengers. In front of the central was a 
pedestrian band of musicians, who walked between the two principal 
palanquins as they kept their pace abreast of each other : and whenever 
their portion of the caravan halted for a few minutes, which happened 
frequently from the pressure of those before, or the intervention of 
very trifling obstacles, they beguiled the tedium of the delay by an 
Arabic song, accompanying the voices with the common instruments 
in use among them. 

As it was considered more than probable that the known passage 
of the Pacha's harem across the desert might attract the Bedouins of 
the surrounding country, under the hope of being able to plunder 
them of their jewels, &c., they were completely hemmed in the 
centre of the caravan, and very strongly guarded also by two detach- 
ments of fifty men each, under the separate commands of Ibrahim 
Pacha and Ismael Pacha, the viceroy's sons, whose mothers were also 
among the principal females of those whom they protected. On the 
right and left of the centre, and about the same distance from the 
I nearest limits of the edge of the caravan as the advanced guard 

i were from its front, two parties of horsemen formed what might be 

called the wing guards, as their province was to keep a good look-out 
in their respective quarters, and to protect that portion of the caravan 
nearest to which they were placed. Behind came trains of camels, 
fastened to each other in long lines ; and last of all was a party of about 
twenty horsemen, apparently for the purpose of keeping the caravan as 
compactly as possible together, while a rear guard, at the distance of 
from two to three miles astern, brought up the whole. 

The route taken by the caravan was the central or most generally 
frequented one, being to the northward of that which I had pursued 
in a former journey across the desert to Suez, and resembling it in 
soil, having a firm and hard gravel, over which artillery and baggage- 
waggons might be drawn with ease; indeed, beside the field-piece car, 
1 which was drawn in front, there were several other wheeled carriages 

accompanying the harem in the present caravan. 

Toward sunset we had on our left a long line of sand-bills, whose 

summits were pointed aijd variegated in a thousand forms, and their 

I fine outlines, more accurately defined as evening advanced, formed a 

I beautiful contrast, by o}>posing their yellow edges to the deep azure 

I of a serene sky. At Muggrib, the hour when twilight ends, the signal 



Buckingham.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 759 

gun was fired to haltj and while the camels reposed on the ground 
without being unladen, the pilgrims of the caravan performed their 
ablutions and evening prayers, and another hour was allowed for 
supper. As the former was a duty in which I did not join, and the 
latter was entirely omitted for want of inclination, I profited by the 
interval to throw myself along upon the sand, and catch a short re- 
pose ; but to sleep was impossible. Appetite to eat 1 had none ; to 
have drank wine, with the high fever which continued on me, would 
have been poison j and of water no supply had been laid in, from an 
expectation that the chief to whose care and protection I had been 
commended, would afford it to me from his tent, as well as every 
other species of provisions 3 so that subsequently, when unable to en- 
dure any longer "the parched thirst that oppressed me, I was obliged 
to alight, and walking by the side of the camel, to suck from a goat's 
skin the putrid water which our drivers had provided for the asses and 
beasts of burthen — they having, for their own use, only a small kid's 
skin full, which the impossibility of replenishing in the desert made 
them carefully preserve. 

When night advanced its darkness was very sensibly lessened by the 
yellowish whiteness of the plains around, as well as by the unclouded 
sky, which yielded us a clear and steady light from the brilliant orbs 
that studded it, whose lustre, through the clear transparency of a 
desert atmosphere in southern climates, surpasses in the highest degree 
the brilliancy wliich they shed on those who inhabit beneath the humid 
and clouded canopy of a northern sky. 

The halt of our caravan being nearly three hours, it must have 
been about ten o'clock when the cannon announced to us the order 
for remounting. Immediately the camels were raised, the portable 
table service of their Oriental riders thrown into their bags, and in less 
than a quarter of an hour every one had resumed his station. 

For the supposed safer direction of our midnight march, a con- 
siderable number of torches had been lighted, the largest of them 
consisting of a long pole, having on its summit a circular framework 
of iron, after the manner of a cage,, in which a fire is borne aloft, and 
fed with wood as occasion requires. These torches were not only dis- 
persed amongst the body of the caravan itself, but were carried also 
before the advanced, the wing, and the rear guards, who, excepting at 
momentary intervals, when they were hidden by the inequalities of 
the road, were always in sight. Amid all my sufferings from fatigue, 
inconvenience, and severe illness, it was impossible to be perfectly. 
prepared for the impressions which our situation was so well calculated 
to excite ; yet I am sure they occasionally lost for a moment their poig- 
nancy, if theywere not altogether forgotten, in the admiration with which 



ill 



760 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Buckingham. 

1 viewed so grand a spectacle as the one that this hour of midnight pre- 
sented. The caravan consisted of more than five thousand camels, besides 
mules, asses, wheeled carriages, &c. ; and tlie number of persons who 
accompanied it, mounted and on foot, were certainly double. The 
four points of the horizon were intercepted by the separate groups of 
lights that accompanied those respective divisions of our surrounding 
guards j although while the waving movements of the lights them- 
selves were distinctly marked, not an individual, either of the Arabs 
by whom they were borne, or of the guard, whose path they were in- 
tended to illuminate, could at all be seen. Immediately around us, 
the crowded caravan pursued its march in the most compact and 
closest order, to the unbroken preservation of which every individual 
was induced to attend by a regard to his own personal safety j when 
it was considered that we had entered a desert, before whose tribes, if 
they attacked us, flight would be ineffectual, and upon whose naked 
plains no refuge from them could be found. The Arab drivers sang 
to their camels most appropriate songs ; alternately encouraging them 
to continue with unslackened steps towards the fountain whose streams 
awaited their arrival, and promising to lead them to a spot where 
wells and herbage would reward them with a sweet repast ; then im- 
ploring Allah to give strength and firmness to their limbs, and steadiness 
to all their paces ; while the beasts themselves seemed really conscious 
of approbation and encouragement being implied in the sounds they 
heard, most probably from their frequent repetition. I have never 
listened to them myself without considerable pleasure, from knowing 
how unaffected is the attachment which the Arabs bear towards their 
animals in general ; and it has always forcibly recalled to my memory 
the general truth, as well as beauty, of that affecting address which 
Hassan makes to his camels while traversing the desert at mid-day, 
so poetically expressed by Collins in the second of his Oriental 
Eclogues : 

"Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear 
In all my griefs a more than equal share ! 
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away. 
Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day, 
In vain ye hope the green delights to know. 
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow: 
Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands, are found. 
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around ! " 

In short, all the variety of scenes, of circumstances, and of recollec- 
tions, arising out of our immediate situation, contributed only to 
heighten the interest of itj while the slow and steady pace of the 
camels 3 the song of their drivers3 the countless number of torches that 



Everett.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 761 

blazed through every part of the caravan j the flying squadrons of 
horse that galloped through our lines, and skirted their extremes, to 
preserve the compact order of our march 3 the scattered parties of 
Arab musicians who surrounded the litters and palanquins of the 
harem ; and the repeated cries of " Ish Allah ! " that were heard at 
intervals from every quarter, being pronounced in such a tone ol 
voice as to rise superior to the mingled tumult of other sounds j 
altogether formed a scene, which, for grandeur and impressive effect, 
I have seldom seen equalled, certainly not surpassed, and of which it 
would not be easy soon to lose the remembrance. — Literary Souvenir, 
1827. 



299.— LA FAYETTE. 

[Edward Everett, 1794 — 1866. 

[Edward Everett was born in Dorchester, Norfolk county, Massachusetts, U.S., i ith 
April, 1794. His father was a clergyman of great repute at Boston, and Judge of 
the Court of Common Pleas for Norfolk county. He was educated at Boston by a 
brother of the celebrated Daniel Webster. Before he was twenty years old he became 
pastor of the Brattle-street Church, Boston, where he wrote his " Defence of 
Christianity," a masterly work. He visited London in 181 5 ; and afterwards studied 
in the University of Gottingen. In 18 19 he was again in England, and became inti- 
mate with Byron, Jeffrey, Campbell, Rogers, Scott, and the other great authors of the 
day. In 1841 he was Ambassador from the United States to England. Mr. Everett 
enjoyed great reputation in America as a public man and a poet. His " Dirge of 
Alaric" first appeared in England, and was pronounced admirable by Campbell. 
He died in 1866.] 

There have been those who have denied to La Fayette the name of a 
great man. What is greatness ? Does goodness belong to greatness, 
and make an essential part of it ? Is there yet enough of virtue left 
in the world to echo the sentiment, that 

*"Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great ?" 

If there is, who, I would ask, of all the prominent names in history, 
has run through such a career, with so little reproach, justly or unjustly 
bestowed ? Are military courage and conduct the measure of great- 
ness ? La Fayette was entrusted by Washington with all kinds of 
service J — the laborious and complicated, which required skill and 
patience 3 the perilous, that demanded nerve ; — and we see him keep- 
ing up a pursuit, effecting a retreat, out-manoeuvring a wary adversary 
with a superior force, harmonizing the action of French regular troops 
and American militia, commanding an assault at the point of the 
bayonet 3 and all with entire success and brilliant reputation. Is the 
readiness to meet vast responsibility a proof of greatness? The 



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[Everett. 




Mernoirs of Mr. Jefferson show us that there was a moment in 1789 
when La Fayette took upon himself, as the head of the military force, 
the entire responsibility of laying down the basis of the revolution. Is 
the cool and brave administration of gigantic power a mark of great- 
ness ? In all the whirlwind of the revolution, and when, as com- 
mander-in-chief of the National Guard, an organized force of three 
milHons of men, who, for any popular purpose, needed but a word, a 
look, to put them in motion, — and he their idol, — we behold him ever 
calm, collected, disinterested ; as free from affectation as selfishness^ 
clothed not less with humility than with power. ' Is the fortitude re- 
quired to resist the multitude pressing onward their leader to glorious 
crime, a part of greatness ? Behold him the fugitive and the victim, 
when he might have been the chief of the revolution. Is the solitary 
and unaided opposition of a good citizen to the pretentions of an ab- 
solute ruler, whose power was as boundless as his ambition, an effort 
of greatness ? Read the letter of La Fayette to Napoleon Bonaparte, 
refusing to vote for him as consul for life. Is the voluntary return in 
advancing years, to the direction of affairs, at a moment like that, 
when, in 18 15, the ponderous machinery of the French empire was 
flying asunder, — stunning, rending, crushing thousands on every side, — 
a mark of greatness ? Contemplate La Fayette at the tribune, in 
Paris, when allied Europe was thundering at its gates, when Napoleon 
yet stood in his desperation and at bay. Are dignity, propriety, cheer- 
fulness, unerring discretion in new and conspicuous stations of extra- 
ordinary delicacy, a sign of greatness? Watch his progress in Ame- 
rica in 1824 and 182^5 hear him say the right word at the right 
time, in a series of interviews, public and private, crowding on each 
other every day, for a twelvemonth, throughout the Union, with every 
description of persons, without ever wounding for a moment the self- 
love of others, or forgetting the dignity of his own position. Lastly, is it 
any proof of greatness to be able, at tlie age of seventy-three, to take 
the lead in a successful and bloodless revolution ; — to change the 
dynasty, — to organize, exercise, and abdicate a military command of 
three and a half millions of men j — to take up, to perform, and lay 
down the most momentous, delicate, and perilous duties, without 
passion, without hurry, without selfishness ? Is it great to disregard 
the bribes of title, office, money j — to hve, to labour, and suffer foe 
great public ends alone j — to adhere to principle under all circum- 
stances ; — to stand before Europe and America conspicuous for sixty 
years, in the most responsible stations, the acknowledged admiration of 
all good men ? 

I think I understand the proposition, that La Fayette was not a 
great man. It comes from the same school which also denies great- 



Everett.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 763 

ness to Washington, and which accords it to Alexander and Caesar, to 
Napoleon and to his conqueror. When I analyse the greatness of 
these distinguished men, as contrasted with that of La Fayette and 
Washington, I find either one idea omitted, which is essential to true 
greatness, or one included as essential, which belongs only to the lowest 
conception of greatness. The moral, disinterested, and purely patriotic 
qualities are wholly wanting in the greatness of Caesar and Napoleon ; 
and, on the other hand, it is a certain splendour of success, a brilliancy 
of result, which, with the majority of mankind, marks them out as the 
great men of our race. But not only are a high morality and a irue 
patriotism essential to greatness j — but they must first be renounced 
before a ruthless career of selfish conquest can begin. I profess to be 
no judge of military combinations ; but, with the best reflection I have 
been able to give the subject, I perceive no reason to doubt that, had 
La Fayette, like Napoleon, been by principle capable of hovering on 
the edges of ultra-revolutionism ; never halting enough to be de- 
nounced ; never plunging too far to retreat ; — but with a cool and 
well-balanced selfishness, sustaining himself at the head of affairs, under 
each new phase of the revolution, by the compliances sufficient to 
satisfy its demands, — had his principles allowed him to play this game, 
he might have anticipated the career of Napoleon. At three difterent 
periods he had it in his power, without usurpation, to take the govern- 
ment into his own hands. He was invited — urged to do so. Had he 
done it, and made use of the mihtary means at his command, to main- 
tain and perpetuate his power, — he would then, at the sacrifice of all 
his just claims to the name of great and good, have reached that which 
vulgar admiration alone worships — the greatness of high station and 
brilliant success. 

But it was of the greatness of La Fayette, that he looked down on 
greatness of the false kind. He learned his lesson in the school of 
Washington, and took his first practice in victories over himself. Let 
it be questioned by the venal apologists of time-honoured abuses, — let 
it be sneered at by national prejudice and party detraction 5 let it be 
denied by the admirers of war and conquest j — by the idolaters of 
success; — but let it be gratefully acknowledged by good men; by 
Americans, — by every man who has sense to distinguish character from 
events ; who has a heart to beat in concert with the pure enthusiasm 
of virtue. 

But it is more than time, fellow-citizens, that I commit this great 
and good man to your unprompted contemplation. On his arrival 
among you, ten years ago, — when your civil fathers, your military, 
your children, your whole population poured itself out, as one throng, 
to salute hira^ — when your cannons proclaimed his advent with joyous 






764 



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[Everett. 



salvoes, and your acclamations were responded from steeple to steeple 
by the voice of festal bells, — with what delight did you not listen to 
his cordial and affectionate words : — " I beg of you all, beloved citizens 
of Boston, to accept the respectful and warm thanks of a heart which 
has for nearly half a century been devoted to your illustrious city !" 
That noble heart — to which, if any object on earth was dear, that ob- 
ject was the country of his early choice, of his adoption, and his more 
than regal triumph, — that noble heart will beat no more for your 
welfare. Cold and motionless, it is already mingling with the dust. 
While he lived, you thronged with delight to his presence — you gazed 
with admiration on his placid features and venerable form, not wholly 
unshaken by the rude storms of his career ; and now that he is de- 
parted, you have assembled in this cradle of the liberties, for which, 
with your fathers, he risked his life, to pay the last honours to his 
memory. You have thrown open these consecrated portals to admit 
the lengthened train which has come to discharge the last public offices 
of respect to his name. You have hung these venerable arches, for 
the second time since their erection, with the sable badges of sorrow. 
You have thus associated the memory of La Fayette in those dis 
tinguished honours, which but a few years since you paid to your 
Adams and Jefferson ; and could your wishes and mine have prevailed, 
my lips would this day have been mute, and the same illustrious voice, 
which gave utterance to your filial emotions over their honoured graves, 
would have spoken, also, for you, over him who shared their earthly 
labours, enjoyed their friendship, and has now gone to share their last 
repose, and their imperishable remembrance. 

There is not, throughout the world, a friend of liberty who has not 
dropped his head when he has heard that La Fayette is no more. 
Poland, Italy, Greece, Spain, Ireland, the South American republics — 
every country where man is struggling to recover his birthright — has 
lost a benefactor — a patron — in La Fayette. But you, young men, at 
whose command I speak, for you a bright and particular loadstar is 
henceforward fixed in the front of heaven. What young man that re- 
flects on the history of La Fayette — that sees him in the morning of 
his days the associate of sages, the friend of Washington — ^but will 
start with new vigour on the path of duty and renown ? 

And what was it, fellow-citizens, which gave to our La Fayette his 
spotless fame ? The love of liberty. What has consecrated his 
memory in hearts of good men? The love of liberty. What nerved 
his youthful arm with strength, and inspired him in the morning of his 
days with sagacity and counsel ? The Jiving love of liberty. To whpt 
did he sacrifice power, and rank, and country, and freedom itself? 
To the horror of licentiousness ; — to the sanctity of plighted faith 3 — to 



Davis.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 765 

the love of liberty protected by law. Thus the great principle of your 
revolutionary fathers, of your pilgrim sires, the great principle of the 
age, was the rule of his life — the love of liberty protected by law. 

You have now assembled within these renowned walls, to perform 
the last duties of respect and love, on the birthday of your benefactor, 
beneath that roof which has resounded of old with the master-voices of 
American renown. The spirit of the departed is in high communion 
with the spirit of the place 3 — the temple worthy of the new name, 
which we now behold inscribed on its walls. Listen, Americans, to 
the lesson, which seems borne to us on the very air we breathe, while 
we perform these dutiful rites. Ye Winds, that wafted the pilgrims to 
the land of promise, fan, in their children's hearts, the love of freedom ; 
Blood, which our fathers shed, cry from the ground ; Echoing Arches 
of this renowned hall, whisper back the voices of other days 3 Glorious 
Washington, break the long silence of that votive canvas 3 — Speak, 
speak, marble lips : teach us "The love of liberty protected by 
LAW ! " — speech on the death of La Fayette. 



300.— THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.* 

[Thomas Davis, 1814 — 1854. 

[Thomas Davis was one of that band of advanced Irish patriots who thought that 
they could supersede, in Ireland, " Moore's Irish Melodies," because they did not go far 
enough for them ; forgetting that Moore, in the language of Samuel Lover (as true 
an Irishman as ever lived), " did more for Ireland than all her other bards put to- 
gether;" that "his winning lay insinuated a sympathy for Ireland into bosoms im- 
pervious to open assault ; that the cold circle of prejudice that had hitherto guarded 
many a heart in high places, was opened by the magic of his song, and for the first 
time the harp of Ireland became more than an emblem of her fame — it was turned 
into an instrument for her good." Fortunately for Davis's chance of future feme, 
he did not confine his lyrics to political ones. "We are told that he wrote the greater 
portion of them (they are published by Duffy, Dublin, in one volume) in a single 
year, 1844; ^i^d this, too, in addition to a great quantity of other writing for the 
journal with which he was connected — The Nation. Apart from his political 



* Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew 
up round a Castle of O'DriscoU's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. 
On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of 
night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young. 
or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by 
one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. 
Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never re- 
covered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is 
most interesting. — See "The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of 
Cork," by Charles Smith, M.D., vol. i. p. 270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774. — 
Author's Note. 



766 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Davis 

songSj which are of the fierce and fiery, cut-and-thrust order, he wrote with great 
tenderness. His love songs are unaffected and graceful. " Darling Nell," " Annie 
Dear," and " The Welcome," are all exquisite songs. He was born in 1814, and 
died in 1854.] 

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles — 

The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles — 

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird 3 

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard ; 

The hookers lie upon the beach 3 and children cease their play j 

The gossips leave the little inn 3 the households kneel to pray — 

And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labour o'er — 

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there j 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. 
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. 
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide. 
Must trust their oars — methinks not few — against the ebbing tide — 
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — 
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore ! 

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street : 

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet — 

A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! "the roof is in a flame !" 

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame — 

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall. 

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl — 

The yell of *' Allah " breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar — 

Oh, Jblessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword j 
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored j 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild j 
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child j 
But see, yon pirate strangled lies and crushed with splashing heel. 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store. 
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore ! 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing — 
They see not now the milking-maids — deserted is the spring ! 
Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town — 
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown j 



Mant.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 767 

They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent. 
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went — 
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleire, and saw five leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. 

Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed — 
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. 
Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; 
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. 
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey — 
She's safe — he's dead — she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai j 
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore. 
She only smiled — O'Driscoll's child — she thought of Baltimore. 

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band. 
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand. 
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen — 
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he, who steered the Algerine ! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer. 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — 
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er — 
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. 



301.— NECESSITY AND BENEFITS OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 

[Bishop Manx, 1776— 1848. 

[The Right Rev. Richard Manx, Bishop of Down, Connor, and Dromore, was 
educated at Winchester and Oxford. He was consecrated Bishop of Killaloe, 1820; 
translated to Down and Connor, 1823, and to Dromore, in 1842. Dr. Mant devoted 
a great portion of his long life to authorship. He published an edition of the Bible 
with Notes and Commentaries, in which he was assisted by Dr. D'Oyly. He also 
wrote much for the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. Bishop Mant died 
in 1848.] 

You know, that the Son of God undertook to redeem and to save 
mankind from the sad state [of sin] into which they had fallen ; — to 
satisfy the offended justice of His Father 3 — to suffer in his own person, 
and thereby to make atonement, for the sins of men ; — and at the same 
time to repair and renew that nature, which was so fatally polluted and 
diseased, by giving to men a new spirit, and by enabling them both to 
will and to do things pleasing unto God. 

You know that in order to this, the Son of God was made man ; — 
that in that form He took upon Himself the nature and the sins of 
men : — that He then submitted to a cruel and disgraceful deatli, for 



768 THE EVERY- DAY BOOK [Mant. 

the redemption and salvation of you and all mankind j whom he thus 
restored to the favour of God, and thereby made it possible for you to 
recover that happiness, which had been lost by the original fall of our 
first parents. 

Finally, you know that God was so pleased with the wonderful love 
and goodness shown in this precious sacrifice of his Son, that he pro- 
mised to pardon all men, who through faith in His blood should truly 
repent of their sins, and should prove their repentance by obeying the 
commandments of his Son, and should thus fulfil the conditions which 
He was pleased to appoint for their salvation. 

These things (T say) you all know 3 and knowing these things, must 
you not think, nay, rather, must you not know it to be a duty which 
you owe to Christ, to obey any commandment which He may lay upon 
you, in return for the sufterings which He endured for your sakes and 
for the blessings which He has purchased for you ? Must you not 
know it to be a duty, which you owe to yourselves, to obey His com- 
mandments, if on your obedience to His commandments depends the 
question, whether or not you shall receive any share in those blessings, 
which He died to purchase ? 

Surely the most inattentive and thoughtless man amongst you, if he 
thinks at all, must know that obedience to the commandments of Christ 
is on every account the duty of him, who calls himself a Christian, Is, 
then, the partaking in the sacrament of the Lord's Supper one of the 
commandments of Christ ? — Hear and consider the words of one of 
His Apostles, and then answer for yourselves. 

'' I have received of the Lord " (saith St. Paul in his first Epistle to 
the Corinthians) '' that which also I deliver unto you. That the Lord 
Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread : and when 
He had given thanks. He brake it, and said. Take, eat ; this is my body, 
which is broken for you : this do in remembrance of me. After the 
same manner also He took the cup, when He had supped, saying. This 
cup is the new testament in my blood : this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, 
in remembrance of me. For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink 
this cup, ye do show the Lord's death till he come."* 

If you attend to this passage, you will find an express commandment 
positively and clearly given by our Saviour, Jesus Christ, in these words, 
which occur twice in the course of the passage: "This do in remem- 
brance of me." Christ, then, commanded something to be done. 

If again you consider the passage, you will find what it was that He 
commanded to be done. He was blessing and giving bread and wine, 
when He told the persons to whom he gave them, to do the same 



* I Cor. xi. 23-26. 



Mant.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 769 

things ill remembrance of Him. To bless and give bread and wine, 
then, are the things, which Christ commanded to be done. 

If again you consider the passage, and compare it with the accounts 
given of the institution of the Lord's Supper by St. Matthew, St. Mark, 
and St. Luke, you wqll perceive, that the commandment of Christ to 
bless and give bread and wine in remembrance of Him, was first com^ 
mitted to His Apostles, at that time the ministers of His word : — and 
if you further consider it, you will perceive that it was not meant to be 
conjfined to them alone, but was also committed to those, who should 
succeed the Apostles as ministers of the Gospel, because St. Paul speaks 
of 'Showing the Lord's death till he come." And as the Lord will 
not come again before the end of the world, the commandment must 
remain in force as long as the world shall last. 

You see then, that the ministers of Christ are commanded by Him 
to bless and to give bread and wine in remembrance of Him. And to 
whom are they to give them ? Why, certainly to the people committed 
to their spiritual charge ; who are therefore as much bound to attend 
and partake in the Lord's Supper as the minister is bound to attend 
and distribute it : for we cannot give, as we are commanded, unless you 
are ready to receive. 

Is it not, then, the commandment of your Lord and Saviour Jesus 
Christ, that you partake in the holy communion of His body and blood ? 
Is not the partaking in it a duty, which you owe to Christ who died for 
you, and to whom you promised obedience at your baptism ? And is 
it not a duty which you owe to yourselves, if you would receive any 
benefit from His death. 

And this I say. Christian brethren, even supposing this to be no 
more than an ordinary commandment of our Saviour. But there ar,e 
circumstances, which distinguish this from all other commandments, 
and make it in an especial manner your duty. 

It is the last and, as it were, the dying commandment and request of 
your Saviour. He who was on the right hand of God the Father, in 
whom shone the fulness of His Father's glory, and who was the express 
image of his person : He humbled Himself for you ; He took your 
nature and form upon Him 3 He became obedient unto death, even 
the cruel and ignominious death of the cross -, and when He was now 
upon the point of fulfilling His surprising love towards you by laying 
down His life for your sakes. He gives you this commandment, that 
you eat and drink the bread and wine offered you by His ministers ! 
Is not the last request of a dying friend entitled to some regard ? And 
of Him, too, who was such a friend ? 

It is the way, by which you are to show that you "remember" 
Christ, and have a just sense of his goodness towards you. " This do " 

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I 



11^ 



(said he) " in remembrance of me." You may indeed say that yon 
remember Christ, that you have a just sense of his goodness, although 
you do not partake in the communion of his body and blood. But 
if he has appointed a particular way, by which he would have you 
remember him, I know not how you can show that you do remember 
him, except by following that one way 3 and I know not how you can 
stand acquitted of forgetfulness and ingratitude to him, unless you per- 
form this his commandment. 

The partaking in the Lord's Supper is again the only proper act of 
Christian worship. The professors of other religions, Jews, Turks, and 
Heathens, worship God by praying to, by thanking, and by praising 
him. In addition to these acts of worship. Christians perform that of 
eating and drinking bread and wine, as Christ has commanded. So 
that however devoutly you may worship God in general when you come 
to Church, you do not in so strict a sense worship as Christians, unless 
you partake in the bread and wine, which represents the body and 
blood of Christ : and thus perform that act, which Christ has made a 
mark of distinction to his followers. 

The partaking in the holy communion is also a duty, which you owe 
to yourselves, on account of the benefits which you may receive from 
it; not only that benefit, which may be expected by all, who generally 
fulfil God's commandments; but those particular benefits, which follow 
upon a hearty and conscientious performance of this. — Sermons, vol. i. 
p. 249. 



302.— FRIENDSHIP MANIFESTED IN FRENCH WOMEN. 

[Julia Kavanagh, 1824. 

[Julia Kavanagh was born at Thurles, Co, Tipperary, 1824. She was taken by 
her parents to London and Paris in her childhood, and remained in the latter city 
till 1844, when she returned to London and became an author by profession. I-Ier 
first book was one for children, called "The Three Paths;" her second the well- 
known story of " Madeline." This successful tale was followed by " Women in 
France during the Eighteenth Century," " Nathalie," "Women of Christianity," 
" French Women of Letters," " English Women of Letters," and a great number of 
pleasing novels.] 

It has been the happy lot o^' French women to experience and re- 
ceive in its fulness, that gentlest feeling of the human heart [friend- 
shij)]. No friends have been so universally faithful and true, and none 
have been more beloved. If we read the social and literary history 
of France during the last two hundred years, we shall find more 
instances of the tender and enduring aflection of women than can be 
the boast of any other nation during the same space of time. The 
profligate, the good, the intellectual, the ignorant have felt it alike. 
It has been calm, polite, and amiable in polished times 3 heroic and 



Kav-anagh.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 771 

devoted in evil days. Wherever we see a distinguished man, a literary- 
circle, a persecution from the- days of Montaigne down to those of 
Madame Roland, there we also see a woman's friendship shining pure 
and clear. Friendship was the great passion of Madame de Ram- 
bouillet. The embellishments of her noble mansion, the enjoyments 
of her pure and intellectual life, were for her friends even more than 
for herself. Tender and almost childish instances of her desire to 
please them have been freely given by her biographers. What friend- 
ship there was even in the austere Port Royal, where men and women 
studied, and prayed, and lived, as it seemed, but for eternity ! How 
pure and true was the long affection of Mdlle. de Scudery and 
Pelisson ! Scarcely love, though the fashion of the age made them 
call it so. But we may doubt if love begins near fifty and lives beyond 
the eightieth year of man and woman : and * * * Madame de la 
Fayette, how faithful and tender was the long intimacy between her 
and the cynical author of the " Maxims !" She had the wisdom and 
the mild gravity of years, without their aspect or their coldness j and 
he, a wearied man, but with more imagination and warmth than he 
showed, found in her all he could still care for in woman — sweetness 
and repose. 

Well he might miss his faithful companion when she left him even 
but for a few days ! Was it not she who had charmed away the bitter- 
ness of his philosophy ? who had filled his daily life with calm 
pleasures ? who, growing active and energetic for him, had, by her 
unwearied exertions and her sagacity, so materially helped him in some 
troublesome law-suits, that she had preserved a large portion of his 
household property to him and his? If Madame de Sevigne was her 
dearest friend, he was the most favoured, for he needed friendship 
most. Madame de Sevigne had her daughter to write to, her friends 
to see ; M. de la Rochefoucauld's sons were away j he was infirm, and 
lived in the solitude of wealth and high rank without love. Madame 
de la Fayette, though infirm herself, found health and leisure enough 
to soothe his declining years j and, spite his sourness, he found kindness 
and tender atfection for her. 

Both needed that tie. Madame de la Fayette's melancholy is rather 
a matter of conjecture than of knowledge; but La Rochefoucauld 
has recorded his in a work famous for the bitterness of its philosophy, 
and the exquisite elegance of its language. The "Maxims" are world- 
known, but they are a slander on their author, no less than on 
human nature. His mind was cynical, but his heart was not a cold 
heart. He who wrote that love was like spirits, talked of by all, seen 
by none — had given up his youth to the worship of a lovely woman. 
He who based all human friendship on sordid calculation, was in the 

3 D 2 



HM! 



75^2 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Kingsley. 

decline of life dependent, and glad to be so, on the gentle and dis- 
interested friendship of Madame de la Fayette. 

They met at the very time for friendship ; when both had seen the 
vanity of life's fairest promises ; when for both was passed the time of 
hope and fruition ; when nought remained save friendship, to their late 
autumn. The once briUiant adventurer of the Fronde had become a 
sad and infirm man. 

In Madame de la Fayette, he found a grave aud gentle mind, and a 
sincerity which he characterized by an expression not known before he 
used it, and which has remained in the French language. He did not 
say that she was truthful, but that she was true, " elle est vraie." The 
two friends soon lived in an entire communion of mind and feeling. 

Madame de la Fayette said to Legrais : "He has improved my 
mind, but I have improved his heart." There was more modesty 
than truth in the saying : Madame de la Fayette's mind was already 
polished and perfect when her friendship for La Rochefoucauld began ; 
but he helped her to revise, and his advice contributed to render more 
perfect that most perfect of her tales, the " Princesse de Cleves." — 
French Women of Letters, vol. i. 



303.— THE RUINED GENTLEMAN. 

[Henry Kingsley, 1830. 
[Henhy Kingsley, son of the late Rev. C. Kingsley, Rector of Chelsea, was born 
1.830, and educaiecl at King's College, London, and Worcester College, Oxford. In 
1852 he left the university and proceeded to Australia, where he resided six years. 
He is a distinguished novelist, and contributes to " Macmillan's Magazine," "Gen- 
tleman's Magazine," and other periodicals. His principal novels are " GeofFry 
Hamlyn," " Ravenshoe," " Mademoiselle Mathilde," &c., &c.] 

Blackeston came in from the next room, and seized General Oak- 
field by the throat. In the scandalous struggle which followed, the 
general fell down stairs. 

Not one word was said on either side. Had it not been that 
General Oakfield did not appear at the Duchess of Richmond's ball, 
and that he took his regiment into action at Quatre Bras with a black 
eye, nothing would ever have been said. But people will cackle and 
gossip as long as the world lasts. 

I believe that the thing might have been finished between these two 
men, had it not been for the cackling of their comrades. The porter 
of the house had told the truth to every one he met. So General 
Oakfield's friends taunted him with having been beaten, and Blackeston's 
friends sneered at him for not having called the general out. Blackeston, 
a studious and sensitive man, felt the taunts of his friends as only a 
student can. 



Kingsley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 773 

Yet this quarrel between the two men would have died into stilhiess 
if it had been left alone. Blackeston thought that Oakfield was drunk, 
and did not know what he was about ; and Oaktield confessed to 
himself that he was half drunk, had made a fool of himself, and had 
been properly served. The two men went into action together at 
Waterloo 5 and in that ghastly pushing crush up the hill at half-past 
sis, with the world at stake, when Oakfield's horse, killed by a cannon 
shot, came headlong down dead, and cast Oakfield prone on the ground 
among the legs of his men, Blackeston "set him on his own beast," 
and said, "Heavens ! general, I feared you were hit yourself." 

But they would not leave them alone to settle their quarrel. 
Blackeston's friends sneered him into madness — sneered him into the 
miserable folly of sending a challenge to General Oakfield. 

Oakfield very properly did not wish to fight. Since his half-tipsy 
escapade he had been very near the gates of death, and had seen very 
serious things : Quatre Bras and Mont St. Jean for instance. I think 
that the man behaved well. He consulted his friend General Lennox. 
He confessed himself in the wrong entirely 3 pointed out that, after his 
conduct at Waterloo, his courage was beyond suspicion 3 and asked his 
brother general whether he might not be allowed to apologize, and refuse 
to fight. His brother general agreed with him, but unfortunately 
allowed the matter to reach the ears of the Duke. 

The Duke's heart was hot and furious within him. They were ad- 
vancing on the country of the French, one of the most irritable, 
valiant, and sensitive people in the world. The Prussians were showing 
already signs of Vandalism. His own personal prestige was sufliciently 
great to keep all things in order, and to prevent a quarrel with the 
French which time could never heal — a quarrel ^vhich would make 
the name of Englishmen loathed in France for ever. The first neces- 
sary thing w^as to keep his own raw troops, few of whom had ever seen 
war, in order. The prestige which he had acquired by beating the 
starved French out of Spain, with command of the sea, and the lines 
of Torres Vedras for a basis of operations, would avail him to keep 
Blucher in order, wdio had nothing to show per contra but Jena and 
Ligny. But he must keep his own army in order. If he allowed one 
oflBcer to fight one duel, where would he be ? After an enmity of 
twenty-five years, there were twenty thousand high-spirited ofiicers in 
France, who would shoot an Englishman as they would shoot a dog. 
This habit of duelling must be checked in one way or another. An 
example must be made : and the example was Blackeston. He was 
brought to court-martial for challenging his superior officer — was 
cashiered, disgraced, and ruined. 

Blackeston was a rare man in the British army in those days, but 



774 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Kingsley. 

the type of man is getting commoner now, as the StaiF College can 
witness. He was a student-soldier — a man of the Havelock type, of 
whom let our enemies beware. Bat he was a man of extreme sensi- 
bility^ he thought himself ciisgraced, and went away to hide himself 
from the ken of man. He hid his head in Wales, at a place called 
Plas Gwynant, under Snowdon, as you go from Capel Curig to Beth- 
gelert, fronting the lake which is called Llyn y Dinas. Here his poor 
bride, worried nearly to death by the details of the. court-martial, and 
killed by the verdict of it, gave birth to a son, and died. 

I cannot in this space go in a business-like manner into Blackeston's 
difficulties. They grew greater, and at last irremediable. But he de- 
clined to be ruined, to beg, and to whine. He was never in debt. 
The time came when even the rent of Plas Gwynant was beyond his 
means. He passed out of that house a free man, with some fifty 
pounds a year, and went into a cottage in that narrow gorge under 
Snowdon, which they call, I think, or ought to call, Glyn y Ilan. But 
he took with him his boy and his books. 

His books. He refused to part with them. I am at this moment 
puzzled to say whether or not the books make the boy. 

It would be wearisome, were it even possible, to give an account of 
these books. They comprised the best scientific and mathematical 
books, and a sufficiency of history -, but the specialite of the library 
was that it contained probably the finest collection of military books in 
any one private hand in England. Blackeston, ageing rapidly, hearing 
only dim rumours of the world, was left alone with his books, his boy, 
and his God, under the solemn shadows of the soaring Wydffa. 

To shape the human soul which was in his keeping as near to per- 
fection as he might, was now his care, his pleasure, and his labour. 
As for the boy's prosperity in life, for his profession, for his friends, 
Blackeston was profoundly indifferent. " I will make the boy fit," he 
said, '' and God will find the work." His mind was getting unhealthy 
in his disappointment, and this fatalism went near to ruining the youth, 
in spite of all his excellences. 

There was scarcely enough to eat in this little cottage of theirs, and 
yet he gave the lad the education of a German prince. As the son 
grew up, the father was astonished at his own handy-work. Lionel 
Blackeston at eighteen was not only a well grown and finely-framed 
youth, but also was a highly-informed man, a splendid theoretical 
soldier, and a perfect gentleman ; a gentleman, however, who had 
scarcely twice in his life interchanged words with one of his own 
order. — IVarnes *' Gold, Silver, Lead.'' 



Niebuhr.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 775 



304.— THE STORY OF ROMULUS AND REMUS. 

[Barthold George Niebuhr, 1776 — T831. 

[Barthold George Niebuhr, the celebrated historian of Rome, was born at Copen- 
hagen, August 27, 1776. He was the son of Carsten Niebuhr, the celebrated traveller 
in the Ea>t. Before he w^as a year old, his father received an appointment in South 
Ditmarsh (Germany), whither he took his son, whom he educated chiefly himself. 
Niebuhr tells us : " He taught me, by preference, out of English books, and put 
English works of all sorts into my hands ; at a verj- early age he gave me a regu- 
lar supph^ of English newspapers — a circumstance which I record here, not on account 
of the influence they have had on my maturerlife, but as indications of A;5 character." 
Association with J. H. Voss, the translator of Homer, with the famous Busch, and 
with Klopstock, completed the lad's education. He studied law at Kiel in 1793-94. 
At nineteen years of age he proceeded to Edinburgh, and studied for a year and a halt 
in the University; afterwards he travelled over England for six months. On his 
return to his native land, he was made private secretarv* to the Danish Minister of 
Finance. In 1806 he entered the Prussian service; was appointed one of the Coun- 
sellors of Public AfFairs under Hardenberg, until the peace of Tilsit. In 1809 he was 
made Privy Counsellor of State at Berlin, where, in 1810, he deli%-ered his first lecture?, 
fiom which originated in iSii and 1812, his two first volumes of Roman History. 
In 18 1 6 he was appointed Prussian Minister at the Papal See, where he was esteemed 
and valued by Pius VII. Niebuhr spent much time in examining the MSS. in the 
Vatican Library-. His residence in Rome gave him an intimate knowledge of the city, 
and a clear conception of its ancient character and histon,-. On his return to Ger- 
many he settled at Bonn, and there wrote the third vol. of his " History of Rome,'* 
Niebuhr died January 2, 183 1, at the age of 55.] 

The old Roman legend ran as follows. Procas king of Alba left two 
sons. Numitor, tlie elder, being weak and spiritless, suffered Amulius 
to wrest the government from him, and reduce him to his father's 
private estates. la the enjoyment of these he lived rich, and, as he 
desired nothing more, secure : but the usurper dreaded the claims that 
might be set up by heirs of a ditierent character. He had Xumitor's 
son murdered, and appointed his daughter, Silvia, one of tiie vestal 
virgins. 

Amulius had no children, or at least only one daughter : so that the 
race of Anchises and Aphrodite seemed on tlie point ot expiring, when 
the love of a god prolonged it, in spite of the ordinances of man, and 
gave it a lustre worthy of its origin. Silvia had gone into the sacred 
grove, to draw water from the spring for the service of the temple. 
The sun quencht its rays : the sight of a wolf made her fly into a cave :* 
tliere Mars overpowered the timid virgin, and then consoled her with 
the promise of noble children, as Posidon consoled Tyro, the daughter 



* I insist in behalf of my Romans on the right of collecting the poetical features of 
the storv, wherever they are to be found, when they have dropt out of the common 
narrative. In the present case they are preserved by Servius, on .£n. i. 274; the eclipse, 
by Dionysius, ii. 56, and by Plutarch, Romul. c. 27. 



776 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Niebuhr. 

of Salmoneus.* But he did not protect her from the tyrant ; nor could 
her protestations of her innocence save her. Vesta herself seemed to 
demand the condemnation of the unfortunate priestess j for at the 
moment when she was delivered of twins, the image of the goddess 
hid its eyes, her altar trembled, and her tire died away.f Amulius 
ordered that the mother and her babes should be drowned in the river. | 
In the Anio Silvia exchanged her earthly life for that of a goddess. 
The river carried the bole or cradle in which the children were lying 
into the Tiber, which had overflowed its banks far and wide, even to 
the foot of the woody hills. At the foot of a wild fig-tree, the Ficus 
Ruminalis, which was preserved and held sacred for many centuries, 
at the foot of the Palatine, the cradle overturned. A she-wolf came to 
drink of the stream : she heard the whimpering of the children, carried 
them into her den hard by,§ made a bed for them, lickt and suckled 
them. When they wanted other food than milk, a woodpecker, the 
bird sacred to Mars, brought it to them. (Jther birds consecrated to 
auguries hovered over them, to drive away insects. This marvellous 
spectacle was seen by Faustulus, the shepherd of the royal flocks. The 
she-wolf drew back, and gave up the children to human nurture. Acca 
Larentia, his wife, became their fostermother. They grew up along 
with her twelve sons,|| on the Palatine hill, in straw huts which they 
built for themselves : that of Romulus was preserved by continual 
repairs, as a sacred relic, down to the time of Nero. They were the 
stoutest of the shepherd lads, fought bravely against wild beasts and 
robbers, maintaining their right against every one by their might, and 
turning might into right. Their booty they shared with their comrades. 
The followers of Romulus were called Quinctilii, those of Remus Fabii : 
the seeds of discord were soon sown amongst them. Their wantonness 
engaged them in disputes with the shepherds of the wealthy Numitor, 
who fed their flocks on Mount Aventine : so that here, as in the story 



* Homer, Od. xi. 235-259. f Ovid, Fast. iii. 45, 

X In poetry of this sort we have no right to ask, why she was thrown into the river, — 
whichever of the two it might be, — and not into the Alban lake? 

§ It is remarkable how even those who did not altogether reject the poetry of the 
story, yet tried to reduce it to a minimum; to the wolf's suckling the little orphans at 
the first moment when she found them by the Ficus Ruminalis : as if in this case, as 
in that of St. Denis, everything did not turn on the first step. The Lupercal itself bears 
witness to the genuine form of the fiction ; and the conceptions of the two Roman poets 
accorded with it. Virgil gives a description of the cave of Mavors : Ovid sings (Fast. 
iii. 53), Lacte quis infantes nescit crcvissc ferino, Et picum expositis ^ac/je tulisse cibos. 
Nor did this poetical feature escape Trogus : cum saepius ad parvulos reverteretur. The 
story of the woodj)ecker and its -ipiojxiafxara could not have been invented of new-born 
infants. See also Plutarch, Quaest. Rom. c. xxi. 

II Masurius Sabinus, quoted by Gellius, N. A. vi. 7. 



Williams.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 777 

of Evander and Cacus, we iind the quarrel between the Palatine and 
the A.ventine in the tales of the remotest times. Remus was taken by 
a stratagem of these shepherds, and dragged to Alba as a robber. A 
secret foreboding, the remembrance of his grandsons awakened by the 
story of the two brothers, kept Numitor from pronouncing a hasty sen- 
tence. The culprit's foster-father hurried with Romulus to the city, 
and told the old man and the youths of their kindred. They resolved 
to avenge their own wrong and that of their house. With their faith- 
ful comrades, whom the danger of Remus had brought into the city, 
they slew the king 3 and the people of Alba again became subject to 
Numitor. 

This is the old tale, as it was written by Fabius, and sung in ancient 
sacred Jays down to the time of Dionysius.* It certainly belongs to 
anything but history. Its essence is the marvellous. We may strip 
this of its peculiarities, and pare away and alter, until it is reduced to a 
possible everyday occurrence ; but we ought to be fully convinced, that 
the caput mortuum which will remain, will be anything but a historical 
fact. Mythological tales of this sort are misty shapes, often no more 
than a Fata Morgana, the prototype of which is invisible, the law of 
its refraction unknown : and even were it not so, it would still sur- 
pass the power of reflection to proceed so subtly and skilfully, as to 
divine the unknown original from these strangely blended forms. But 
such magical shapes are different from mere dreams, and are not with- 
out a hidden ground of real truth. The name of dreams belongs to 
the fictions invented by the later Greeks, when the tradition had become 
extinct, and when individuals indulged a wanton licence in altering the 
old legends 5 not considering that their diversity and multiplicity had 
been the work of the whole people, and was not a matter for individual 
caprice to meddle with. — History of Rome, vol. i. 



305.— PANORAMIC VIEW OF ROME. 

[Helen Maria Williams, 1762 — 1827. 

[Helen Maria Williams was born in 1762, and settled in Paris in 1790. She was 
the friend and advocate of the Girondists, and on their fall she was imprisoned and 
nearly shared their fate. She wrote Poems, Novels, "A Narrative of Events in 
France, 1815," &c. She died in 1827.] 

" Birth-place of Seneca — nurse of arms and arts. 
Shrouded in ignorance and slavery." 

We stood on the tower of the capitol, and surveyed the remains of 
that city, and those trophies which emperors and kings, through many 



* I. 79. we f^v ToXg Trarpioig vjxvoiq vtto 'Pcjfiaiijjv tri xai vvv d^erai. 



^78 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Williams. 

ages conquerors of the world, had looked upon with exultation, and 
accounted substantial monuments of their glory. The colossal aque- 
ducts bestrode the Campagna ; the Applan way was shaded by the 
tombs of the most illustrious Romans, tombs now following fast into 
oblivion the relics of their proud possessors; — i hose of Caius Cestus 
and Cecilia Metella beino^ all that are now distinoujshable. We sur- 
veyed the ancient walls of the Eternal City, built to protect its infancy 
against the incursions of restless tribes, but insufficient to defend its 
age against its Gothic conquerors. The triumphal arches of Titus, 
Severus, and Constantine, built at a time when th^ arms of barbarians 
could never be expected to overtake those favourites of conquest, and 
to spoil, in their turn, the spoilers of mankind. We beheld the 
temples of heathen worship, now, with the worship itself, for ever 
fallen, though the spirit of Pagan superstition seems still to linger 
among the ruins. Jupiter Tonans, divested of his attributes, has long 
since resigned his thunders to the pontiffs of the Vatican. The palace 
of the Caesars is scarcely discoverable by its paltry remains, wild weeds 
of a summer's growth overshadowing all that exists of structures 
intended for interminable duration. We threw our eyes over the 
ancient temples of Romulus and Remus, the founders of the 
monarchy J the temples of the Sun and of Peace, — the latter only 
suggesting its opposite, and serving to remind us of ancient Rome, as 
a nursery of warriors. We reverted to the capitol, still crowding and 
commanding the city of conquest, and to the curious excavations below, 
again bringing into view vestiges of ancient grandeur, of which history 
itself seems to have taken no account. Chief of all, our attention was 
riveted by the Coliseum and the Forum ; — the former often wet with 
the blood of gladiators, — the latter, in the ear of fancy, still echoing 
to the eloquence of a Brums or a Cicero. The Coliseum, perhaps, more 
than any of the antiquities, realizes the visions of the student of 
ancient history. Its vast size, its unnatural destination, its measured 
and tardy decay, having already outlived the lapse of many centuries, 
proclaim at once, that the earthly schemes of man, so far beyond the 
term of his mortal existence, are shortlived, mean, and trifling, com- 
pared to his eternal destination. To the right of the Tiber, which 
takes its course along the foot of the Aventine Mount, we remark the 
Ripa Grande or Quay, circumscribing its range to the south 3 the river 
itself, though choked and shallowed by the debris of its banks, and 
the crumbling edifices of successive centuries, broad, deep, and un- 
ruffled by the ruins which it conceals, is still the yellow muddy Tiber 
of the Augustan age, finely corresponding in tone and colour with the 
dusky ruins that nod upon its shores. The Tiber is lost for a time to 
the eye among the various buildings, and again appears in view, taking 



Williams.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 779 

its course in winding lines of light across the wide waste that stretches 
off towards the sea. The hill of Janiculum, the palaces, the villas of 
Pamphili, Corsini, and the numerous structures of modern Rome, its 
domes, monasteries, churches, and palaces, successively occupy the 
attention, till we come to the Tarpeian Rock itself, now scarcely for- 
midable, being almost lost in rubbish. 

Then turning towards the west, the eye rests on the dome of St. 
Peter's, and the Vatican, with all its far-famed treasures of sculpture 
and painting. The mighty building of St. Peter's, the first and most 
magnificent of temples in the world, seems sovereign of modern Rome 
(as the CoHseum does of the ancient city), surrounded by his vassals at 
humble distance, conformable to the inferiority of their rank and pre- 
tensions. All seems, however, to be provided for the purposes of a 
worship, meant to captivate the senses by its external splendour and 
beauty, until the very object of religion, the cultivation of the 
Christian virtues, which are meek and humble, is forgotten in the 
magnificence of a priesthood of princes ; combining the splendour and 
luxuries of life with their preparations for bidding it adieu. 

What a contrast with the CoHseum, which, on the other hand, 
speaks of heathen times, and feelings scarcely human, when a whole 
people used to assemble, to be delighted with the suffering, the groan- 
ing, and destruction of unfortunate fellow mortals, selected to shed 
each other's blood, without any motive of enmity or revenge, but for 
the sole purpose of gratifying the taste of an unthinking and ferocious 
populace ! Such scenes might nerve the arm, and steel the heart for 
purposes of conquest ; but as certainly they annihilated the finer senti- 
ments of the soul, and degraded the lords of the creation into fit com- 
panions or rivals to the tyrants of the forest. 

From St. Peter's we were naturally led to the Mausoleum of 
Hadrian and the Pantheon of Agrippa, together with the great works 
of a succession of agesj which, though differing in date, seem to the 
eye of a modern beholder of almost equal antiquity, and impress him 
with almost equal veneration and awe. From this spot, too, may be 
seen the columns of Antonine and Trajan. In the forum of the latter 
emperor, excavations disclose the pristine city, far beneath the level of 
its modern, though still ancient successor. 

The Quirinal Palace of the Pope, to the north, combines with 
Soracte and the snowy Apennines, and presents to the eye the most 
interesting and ever-varying pictures. Lastly, and immediately below 
the spectator, the eye rests on the Museum of the Capitol, designed by 
Michael Angelo, and filled with works of the chisel, during every age 
of the progress of the rival yet sister arts of architecture and statuary, 
from the bronze wolf, said to have been struck by lightning at the 



78o THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Smith. 

death of Caesar, to the modem ornaments of the Museum. After 
examining the detail of this most astonishing scene, we cast our eyes 
generally over the whole, and rested them for awhile on those per- 
manent features, the Alban Mount, with ancient Tusculum on its 
bosom, Tivoli sparkling in the sun, and the seven hills of ancient 
Rome. All this it were vain to attempt to describe, and still more the 
emotion which it excites. — H. li^ilLiartu Travels. Extracttd from the 
Flowers of Literature. 



306.— THE BACHELOR'S THERMOMETER. 

[James Smith, 1775 — 1839. 
[James Smith was born in London, February 10, 1775. He was the son of Robert 
Smith, Esq., solicitor to the Board of Ordnance, and elder brother of Horace Smith, 
the celebrated novelist. He was ultimately taken into partnership with his father, 
and succeeded to his official appointments. He was the joint author with his 
brother Horace, of the celebrated "Rejected Addresses," and wrote hght articles for 
several periodicals of the day, as well as supp]}nng the elder Mathews, the actor, with 
material for his popular " At Home."' The literary ambition of James did not 
extend beyond middle life, while his brother continued a worker to the end of his 
career. He died in 1839: Horace sur^dving him ten years.] 

^TATis 30. Looked back through a vista of ten years. Re- 
membered that, at twenty, I looked upon a man of thirty as a middle- 
aged man j wondered at my error, and protracted the middle age to 
forty. Said to myself, " Forty is the age of wisdom." Reflected 
generally upon past life 3 wished myself twenty again ; and exclaimed, 
" If I were but twenty, what a scholar I would be by thirty ! but it's 
too late now." Looked in the glass : still youthful, but getting rather 
fat. Young says, *' a fool at forty is a fool indeed 3 " forty, therefore, 
must be the age of wisdom. 

31. Read in the Morning Chronicle, that a watchmaker in Paris, 
aged thirty-one, had shot himself for love. More fool the watch- 
maker ! Agreed that nobody fell in love after twenty. Quoted 
Sterne, " The expression /a// in love, evidently shows love to be beneath 
a. man." Went to Drury Lane: saw Miss Crotch in Rosetta, and fell 
in love with her. Received her ultimatum : none but matrimonians 
need apply. Was three months making up my mind (a long time for 
making up such a little parcel), when Kitty Crotch eloped with Lord 
Buskin. Pretended to be very glad. Took three turns up and down 
library, and looked in glass. Getting rather fat and florid. Met a 
friend in Gray's Inn, who said, I was evidently in rude health. 
Thought the compliment ruder than the health. 

32. Passion for dancing rather on the decline. Voted sitting out 
play and farce one of the impossibilities. Sliil in stage-box three 



Smith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 781 

nights per week. Sympathized with the public in vexation occasioned 
by non-attendance the other three : can't please everybody. Began to 
wonder at the pleasure of kicking one's heels on a chalked floor till 
four in the morning. Sold bay mare, who reared at three carriages, 
and shook me out of the saddle. Thought saddle-making rather 
worse than formerly. Hair growing thin. Bought a bottle of Tricosian 
fluid. Mem. "a flattering unction." 

^^. Hair thinner. Serious thoughts of a wig. Met Colonel 
Buckhorse, who wears one. Devil in a bush. Serious thoughts of 
letting it alone. Met a fellow Etonian in the Green Park, who told 
me I wore well : wondered what he could mean. Gave up cricket 
club, on account of the bad air about Paddington : could not run in it 
without being out of breath. 

34. Measured for a new coat. Tailor proposed fresh measure, 
hinting something about bulk. Old measure too short ; parchment 
shrinks. Shortened my morning ride to Hampstead and Highgate. 
and wondered what people could see at Hendon. Determined not to 
marry : means expensive, and dubious. Counted eighteen bald heads 
in the pit at the Opera. So much the better 3 the more the merrier. 

^^. Tried on an old great coat, and found it an old little one : 
cloth shrinks as well as parchment. Red face in putting on shoes. 
Bought a shoe-horn. Remember quizzing my uncle George for using 
one : then young and foolish. Brother Charles's wife lay-in of her 
eighth child. Served him right for marrying at twenty-one : age of 
discretion too ! Hunting-belts for gentlemen hung up in glovers' 
windows. Longed to buy one. but two women in shop cheapening 
mittens. Three grey hairs in left eyebrow. 

^6. Several grey hairs in whiskers : all owing to carelessness in 
manufactory of shaving-soap. Remember thinking my father an old 
man at thirty-six. Settled the point ! Men grew older sooner in 
former days. Laid blame upon flapped waistcoats and tie-wigs. 
Skaited on the Serpentine. Gout. Very foolish exercise, only fit for 
boys. Gave skaies to Charles's eldest son. 

37. Fell in love again. Rather pleased to find myself not too old 
for the passion. Emma only nineteen. What then ? women require 
protectors j day settled ; devilishly frightened 3 too late to get off. 
Luckily jilted. Emma married George Parker one day before me. 
Again determined never to marry. Turned off old tailor, and took to 
new one in Bond Street. Some of these fellows make a man look ten 
years younger. Not that that was the reason. 

38. Stuck rather more to dinner-parties. Gave up quadrilles. 
Waltzing certainly more fatiguing than formerly. Fiddlers play it too 
quick. Thought of adding to number of grave gentlemen who learn 



782 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Smith. 

to dance. Dick Dapper dubbed me one of the over-grown^. Very 
impertinent, and utterly untrue. 

39. Valse a deux temps rising. Wondered sober mistresses of 
families would allow their carpets to be beat after that fashion. 
Dinner-parties increasing. Found myself gradually Tont'ine-ing it 
towards top of table. Dreaded Ultima Tliule of hostess's elbow. 
Good places for cutting turkeys j bad for cutting jokes. Wondered 
why I was always desired to walk up. Met two schoolfellows at 
Pimlico ; both fat and red-faced. Used to say at school that they 
were both of my age : what lies boys tell ! 

40. Look back ten years. Remember, at thirty, thinking forty a 
middle-aged man. Must have meant fifty. Fifty certainly the age of 
wisdom. Determined to be wise in ten years. Wished to learn music 
and Italian. Tried Hullah. 'Twould not do. No defect of capacity, 
but those things should be learned in childhood. 

41. New furnished chambers. Looked in new glass: one chin 
too much. Looked in other new glass- chin still double. Art of 
glass-making on the decline. Sold my horse, and wondered people 
could find any pleasure in being bumped. What were legs made for ? 

42. Gout again : that disease certainly attacks young people more 
than formerly. Caught myself at a rubber of whist, and blushed. 
Tried my hand at original composition, and found a hankering after 
epigram and satire. Wondered I could ever write love sonnets. 
Imitated Horace's ode *' Ne sit ancilla." Did not mean anything 
serious, though Susan certainly civil and attentive. 

43. Bought a hunting-belt. Braced myself up till ready to burst. 
Stomach not to be trifled with: threw it aside. Young men, now-a- 
days, much too small in the waist. Read in Morning Post an advertise- 
ment **' Pills to prevent Corpulency:" bought a box. Never the 
slimmer, though much the sicker. 

44. Met Fanny Stapleton, now Mrs. Meadows. Twenty-five 
years ago wanted to marry her. What an escape ! Women certainly 
age much sooner than men. Charles's eldest boy began to think 
himself a man. Starched cravat and a cane. What presumption ! 
At his age I was a child. 

45. A few wrinkles about the eyes, commonly called crow's feet. 
Must have caught cold. Began to talk politics, and shirk the drawing- 
room. Eulogi7,ed Kean : saw nothing in Phelps. Talked of Lord 
Melbourne. Wondered at the licentiousness of the modern press. 
Why can't people be civil, like Junius and John Wilkes in the good 
old times? 

46. Bather on the decline, but still handsome and interesting. 
Growing dislike to the company of young men : all of them talk too 



Alex. Smith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 783 

much or too little. Began to call chambermaids at inns " My dear." 
Listened to a how] from Capt. Querulous, about family expenses, price 
of bread and butcher's meat. Did not care a jot if bread was a 
shilling a roll, and butcher's meat fifty pounds a calf. Hugged myself 
in ** single blessedness." 

47. Top of head quite bald. Shook it, on reflecting that I was 
but three years removed from the ''Age of Wisdom." Teeth sound, 
but not so white as heretofore. Something the matter with the denti- 
frice. Began to be cautious in chronology. Bad thing to remember 
too far back. Had serious thoughts of not remembering Madame 
Vestris. 

48. Quite settled not to remember Madame Vestris. Thought 
that I certainly did not look forty-eight. 

49. Resolved never to marry for anything but money or rank. 

50. Age of wisdom. Married my cook ! 



307.— VIOLET. 

[Alexander Smith, 1830 — 1867. 

[Alexander Smith was born at Kilmarnock, December 31, 1830. His father was a 
drawer of patterns for the various fabrics manufactured in that town. Paisley, and 
Glasgow, and it was between these places that the boyhood of the poet was passed. 
He was educated at Glasgow, and from the singular ardour he exhibited in the acqui- 
sition of knowledge, he was destined for a minister' of religion. A severe illness, 
however, put an end to his studies, and he became a designer of lace patterns for one 
of the Glasgow manufactories. While thus employed, he composed some fugitive 
verses, by which he obtained a local reputation; but on the publication of his " Life- 
Drama," by Mr. David Bogue, in 1853, he at once established his fame. To the 
" Critic" and the " Eclectic Review," the praise is due for having first pointed out his 
merits to the reading and critical world. Four editions of the " Life-Drama " followed 
in rapid succession, and every one agreed that a new star had appeared in the poetical 
hemisphere. In 1854, Mr. Smith's poetical merits had a more substantial, and a 
justly-deserved recognition, in his appointment to the Secretaryship of the University 
of Edinburgh — an appointment alike graceful and appropriate. He published (1857) 
his " City Poems," and, in conjunction with the author of "Balder," a small volume 
of " Sonnets on the War." He died January, 1867.] 

A Balcony overlooking the Sea — Edward and Walter seated. 

Edw. {after a pause). The garrulous sea is talking to the shore. 
Let us go down and hear the greybeard's speech. [They walk, 
I shall go down to Bedfordshire to-morrow. 
"Will you go with me ? 

IVal. Whom shall we see there ? 

Edw. Why, various specimens of that biped, Man. 



784 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Alex. Smith. 



I'll show you one who might have been an abbot 

In the old time ; a large and portly man. 

With merry eyes, and crown that shines like glass. 

No thin-smiled April he, bedript with tears. 

But appled- Autumn, golden-cheeked and tan j 

A jest in his mouth feels sweet as crusted wine. 

As if all eager for a merry thought. 

The pits of laughter dimple in his cheeks. 

His speech is flavorous, evjermore he talks 

In a warm, brown, autumnal sort of style." 

A worthy man. Sir ! who shall stand at compt 

With conscious white, save some few stains of wine. 

Wal. Commend me to him ! He is half right. The Past 
Is but an emptied flask, and the rich Future 
A bottle yet uncorked. Who is the next ? 

Edw. Old Mr. Wilmott, nothing in himself. 
But rich as ocean. He has in his hand 
Sea-marge and moor, and miles of stream and grove. 
Dull flats, scream- startled, as the exulting train 
Streams like a meteor through the frighted night j 
Wind-billowed plains of wheat, and marshy fens. 
Unto whose reeds, on midnights blue and cold. 
Long strings of geese come clanging from the stars. 
Yet wealthier in one child than in all these ! 
Oh, she is fair as Heaven ! and she wears 
The sweetest natne that woman ever worej 
And eyes to match her name — 'tis Viol t. 

JVal. If like her name, she must be beautiful. 

Edw. And so she is : she has dark violet eyes, 
A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek 
The blushing blood miraculous doth range 
From tender dawn to sunset. When she speaks 
Her soul is shining through her earnest face. 
As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud — • 
My tongue's a very beggar in her praise. 
It cannot gild her gold with all its words. 

Wal. Hath unbreeched Cupid struck your heart of ice ? 
You speak of 1 er as if you were her lover. 
Could you not find a home within her heart ? 
No, no ! you are too cold — you never loved. 

Edw. There's nothing colder than a desolate hearth. 

Wal. A desolate hearth ! Did fire leap on it once ? 

Edw. My hand is o'er my heart, and shall remain — 



Newton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 785 

Let the swift minutes run, red sink the sun j 
To-morrow will be rich with Violet. 

Wal. So be it : large he sinks ! Repentani Day 
Frees with his dying hand the pallid stars 
He held imprisoned since his young hot dawn. 
Now watch with what a silent step of fear 
They'll steal out one by one, and overspread 
The cool, delicious meadows of the night. 

Edw. And, lo ! the first one flutters in the blue. 
With a quick sense of liberty and joy. 
* * -St * * * 

Wal. Thou look' St up to the night as to the face 
Of one thou lov'st : I know her beauty is 
Deep-mirrored in thy soul as in a sea. 
What are thy thinkings of the earth and stars ? 
A theatre magnificently lit 
For sorry acting, undeserved applause ? 
Dost think there's any music in the spheres ! 
Or doth the whole creation, in thine ear, 
Moan like a stricken creature to its God, 
Fettered eternal in a lair of pain ? 

Edw. I think — we are two fools : let us to bed. 
What care the stars for us ? — Scene from a Life Drama. 



308.— CHURCH AND STATE. 

[Bishop Newton, 1704 — 1782. 

[Thomas Newton was born in Staffordshire, 1704. He was educated at Westminster 
School, and Frinity College, Cambridge, of which he was elected a Fellow. In 1756 
he was appointed chaplain in ordinary to the king. The bench of English bishops 
may justly number the eminent prelate, whose name stands above, among its 
brightest ornaments. His services, not less to the cause of literature in general than 
to his profession in particular, were on all occasions opportune and substantial ; — at 
the same time that they were adorned and upheld by a purity of life and suavity of 
manners than which nothing could have been more exemplary. The two great 
works by which Bishop Newton's name will more decidedly go down to posterity, 
are his " Dissertation on the Prophecies," and his edition of the " Poetical Works of 
Milton : " the latter, a masterpiece of its kind ; and first appearing in 1749 in two 
splendid quarto volumes. This first publication co tained only the " Paradise Lost." 
In due time (1752) it was succeeded by the ** Paradise Regained," and the " Minor 
Poems," in one quarto volume. This was not only the first regular variorum 
edition of Milton's poetical works — enriched with much choice information from 
Warburton, Jortin, Pearce, and others — but embodying all that was valuable in 
previous annotators, including the Essays of Addison. It was also adorned by en- 
gravings from the designs of no very despicable master ; for Hayman, who was the 
Stothard of his day, now and then presents us with a striking representation of the 

3 fi 



786 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Newton 



thoughts of the poet. Lord Bath, the Bishop's patron, wa<; at the expense of the en- 
gravings ; and such was the success of this happy union of learning and art, that the 
editor lived to see eight impressions of his labours. The work was also well got up 
in other respects. The paper and printing were excellent; and the correctness of the 
text was such, that Baskerville was induced to lend the magic of his press to con- 
tribute to its celebrity. His edition of the text only, in two small quarto volumes, is 
one of the most beautiful efforts of his typographical skill. Bishop Newton's fame is 
inseparable from this admirable performance. Mr. Todd has doubtless enlarged 
the sphere of intelligence connected with the illustration of Milton's text by a 
crowd of apposite authorities, and by most curious and felicitous research ; but the 
previous labours of the Bishop can at no time become obsolete. For half a century 
there was no similar work comparable with it. Bishop Newton's "Dissertation on 
the Prophecies " — the " magnum opus " of his professional labours — was first 
published in 1754, 8vo; since which it has re-appeared in a variety of forms, with 
more or less critical aid, down to the present day. It has now the sanction of time 
— confirmative of its being indispensable to the library of a clergyman. Its learned 
and amiable author survived the publication nearly thirty years, dying in 1782, in 
the 78th year of his age.] 

Religion and loyalty go best hand in hand together. The fear of 
God enforceth obedience to the laws ; and obedience to the laws pro- 
moteth the fear of God. True religion is the best support of good 
government 5 and good government maintains and encourages true 
religion. So that it is no visionary scheme, but there is a real foun- 
dation in the nature of things for the alliance and union between Church 
and State ; and what God and the constitution of things have thus 
joined together, let not men impiously pretend to put asunder. 

If we would attain any just conception of the ways and means 
whereby civil policy contributes to the promotion of true religion, we 
cannot form our notions upon any constitution better than our own, 
especially as we see it happily administered at present. The king, or, 
to speak more generally, the civil magistrate, protects and defends the 
church from injury and violence, of professed enemies without, and of 
false brethren within. He not only protects and defends the church 
from danger, but also provides for her support and maintenance by a 
pubHc endowment for her ministers ; so that, according to the pre- 
diction of the evangelical prophet (Isa. xlix. 23), *' kings are," pro- 
perly, " her nursing-fathers, and queens her nursing-mothers." He 
allows to the heads and governors of the church a seat in the court of 
legislature and supreme judicature of the kingdom, to sit there as 
watchmen and guardians, to see that nothing be enacted or adjudged 
contrary to the interests of the church and religion. He permits the 
exercise of ecclesiastical jurisdiction with coercive powers for the re- 
formation of manners, to supply the deficiencies of civil judicatures, 
and ratifies and enforces spiritual censures by temporal penalties. He 
farther promotes the fear of God and a sense of religion by punishing 
impiety and profaneness, vice and immorality, more especially such as 



Newton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 787 

is opposite to or destructive of good government (Rom. xiii. 4) 3 " for 
he beareth not the sword in vain, and is a revenger to execute wrath 
upon him that doeth evil." He not only discountenances and punishes 
the bad, but also rewards and encourages the good, and manifests 
himself to be *' sent " (i Pet. ii. 14) as for the punishment of ** evil 
doers," so likewise " for the praise of them that do well." But a good 
magistrate, a good king, no way promotes relig'on and virtue more 
effectually than by his own example. They who resist all other 
motives, will yet have some regard to royal example. It is of greater 
force than the dead letter of statutes. It is a living law to the whole 
nation. Happy are the people who can look up to the throne for a 
pattern of goodness, and experimentally find and feel the first in rank 
to be the first also in virtue. 

Such influence hath the state upon religion, but religion operates 
more strongly upon the state, and "the fear of God" is the best 
foundation and support of '' the honour of the king." Religion would 
be required of us, even if we lived without government or society j 
but no government or society can tolerably subsist without religion. 
A nation of atheists would be worse than a nation of Hottentots. 
"The fear of God " is the basis, as of all the social duties, so particu- 
larly of obedience to the civil powers. The one comprehends and in- 
cludes the other, as the greater the less. From the one the other 
follows by natural consequence 5 and nothing can be of higher obli- 
gation than the will of God. If the authority of God cannot constrain 
and oblige us, it must be expected that the authority of man will have 
but little lasting effect upon us. Loose principles of religion must 
necessarily introduce loose principles -of government, and disturb the 
peace and order and happiness of society. If men are under no fear 
or restraint of God, there can be no dependence upon the most 
solemn oaths and engagements, which are the greatest securities of 
government. Shake off this principle, and you unhinge the world ; 
there is no bond to hold society together. 

Religion is necessary for the support of government, as nothing else 
can supply the defects of human laws and constitutions. For human 
laws respect only overt acts, and bind the outward man ; but the 
fear of God controls the mind and conscience, directs the intentions 
as well as regulates the actions. A man may be guilty of many 
breaches of the law in private, and yet escape public justice 5 but 
he will do nothing amiss in private any more than in public who 
setteth God always before him, and acteth always as in his presence. 
A man may be very wicked and profligate, offend against the spirit 
of the law, and yet keep within the letter of it j but religion in- 
fluenceth the whole man, and will make us (Rom. xiii. ^) ** subject 

3 E 2 



7^8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Holmes. 

not only for wrath bat also for conscience-sake." Human laws cannot 
restrain and prohibit some irregularities without the danger of intro- 
ducing others as pernicious and destructive 3 but (Psal. xix. 7) "the 
law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul/' and equally an enemy 
to every evil work. Human laws principally enjoin such duties as 
more immediately affect the being and safety of society, but others 
there are no less conducive to the public welfare and happiness, such 
as humanity, hospitality charity, gratitude, love of our country, and the 
like, which human laws cannot reach. Here -therefore religion is 
wanted to lend an helping hand, to complete the obligation, and en- 
force it by divine authority. Human laws are framed rather to punish 
and discountenance the bad, than to reward and encourage the good j 
so that in this sense we may say truly with the apostle (i Tim. v. 9), 
that " the law is not made for a righteous man, but for the lawless and 
disobedient, for the ungodly and for sinners." Princes and governors 
cannot always distinguish the proper objects of their favour. This 
privilege belongs to Him alone who trieth the hearts and the reins. 
But if they were able to distinguish them, yet human means can 
never find a fund sufficient to reward them. The sanction of rewards, 
therefore, must be derived from religion. God, and God alone, can 
(Matt. xvi. 27) "reward every man according to his works." 

Rehgion not only supplies the defects of human laws, but farther 
improves and advances our civil duties to the highest perfection. The 
church wisely consults and promotes the honour of the king by 
acknowledging her own dependency and his supremacy in all causes, 
as well ecclesiastical as civil. This power was for many ages usurped 
by a foreign bishop j but, by being restored to its rightful and lawful 
proprietor, all the absurdities are avoided, all the inconveniences are 
prevented of an empire within an empire. We are now taught 
(1 Pet. ii. 13) to "submit ourselves to the king as supreme for the 
Lord's sake j" and none other principle of duty can be so steady and 
permanent as this, or so to be depended upon at all times and upon 
all occasions. — God and the King. Sermon preached before George IIL 
on the anniversary of his accession, 1761. 



309.— BOOKS. 

[Oliver Wendell Holmes, M.D., 1809. 

[Oliver Wendell Holmes, physician, poet, essayist, and novelist, is the son of 
the Rev. Abiel Holmes, author of the "Annals of America," and was born at 
Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 29th, 1809. He graduated at Harvard College 
in 1829. He studied medicine in the hospitals of Paris, and other foreign capitals, 
and commenced practising it at Boston about 1835. His first poems appeared in 

' the American periodicals in 1836. Dr. Holmes has published numerous works. 



Holmes.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 7S9 

of which his "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," and " Elsie Venner," axe the best 
known in EnglancL] 

I LIKE books, — I was bom and bred among them, and have the easy 
feeling, \^"heD I get into their presence, that a stable-boy has among 
horses. I don't think I undervalue them either as companions or as in- 
structors. But I can't help remembering that the world's great men 
have not commonly been great scholars, nor its greatest scholars great 
men. The Hebrew Patriarchs had small libraries I think, if any j yet 
they represent to our imagination a very complete idea of manhood, and, 
I think, if we could ask an Abraham to dine with us men of letters next 
Saturday, we should feel honoured by his company. What I wanted 
to say about books is this : that there are times in which every active 
mind feels itself above^ny and all human books. 

"I think a man must have a good opinion of himself, sir," said the 
divinity student, " who should feel himself above Shakspeare at any 
time." 

" My young friend," I replied, "the man who is never conscious 
of a state of feeling or of intellectual effort entirely beyond expression 
by any form of words whatsoever, is a mere creature of language. I 
can hardly beheve there are any sueh men. Why, think for a 
moment of the power of music. The nerves that make us 
ahve to it, spread out (as the Professor tells me) in the most 
sensitive region of the marrow, just where it is widening to run up- 
wards into the hemispheres. It has its seat in the region of sense 
rather than of thought; yet it produces a continuous and, as it were, 
logical sequence of emotional and intellectual changes ; but how 
ditierent from the trains of thought proper I how entirely beyond the 
reach of symbols ! Think of human passions as compared with all 
phrases ! Did you ever hear of a man's growing lean by reading of 
" Romeo and Juliet," or blowing his brains out because Desdemona 
was maligned ? There are a good many symbols too that are more 
expressive than words. I remember a young wife who had to part 
with her husband for a time. She did not write a mournful 
poem ; indeed, she was a silent person, and perhaps hardly said a 
word about it ; but she quietly turned of a deep orange colour with 
jaundice. A great many people in this world have but one form of 
rhetoric for their profoundest experiences, namely — to waste away 
and die. "VMien a man can read, his paroxysm of feeling is passing. 
When he can read, his thought has slackened its hold. You talk 
about reading Shakspeare, using him as an expression for the highest 
intellect, and you wonder that any common person should be so pre- 
sumptuous as to suppose his thought can rise above the text which 
lies before him. But think a moment. A child's readinsr of Shak- 



790 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Moir. 

speare is one thing, and Coleridge or Schlegel's reading of him is 
another. The saturation point of each mind differs from that of 
every other. But I think it is as true for the small mind, which 
can only take up a little, as for the great one, which takes up much, 
that the suggested trains of thought and feeling ought always to rise 
above, not the author, but the reader's mental version of the author, 
whoever he may be. 

I think most readers of Shakspeare sometimes find themselves 
thrown into exalted mental conditions like those produced by music. 
Then they may drop the book, to pass at once into the region of 
thought without words. We may happen to be very dull folks, you and 
I, and probably are, unless there is some particular reason to sup- 
pose the contrary. But we get glimpses now and then of a sphere 
of spiritual possibilities, where we, dull as we are now, may sail in 
vast circles around the largest compass of earthly intelligences. 

I confess there are times when I feel like the friend I mentioned to 
you some time ago — I hate the very sight of a book. Sometimes it 
becomes almost a physical necessity to talk out what is in the mind, 
before putting anything else into it. It is very bad to have thoughts 
and feelings, which were meant to come out, strike in, as they say of 
some complaints that ought to show outwardly. 

I always believed in life rather than in books. I suppose every day 
of earth, with its hundred thousand deaths, and something more of 
births — with its loves and hates, its triumphs and defeats, its pangs 
and blisses, has more of humanity in it than all the books that were 
ever written put together. I believe the flowers growing at this 
moment send up more fragrance to heaven than was ever exhaled from 
all the essences ever distilled. — The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, 
Part vi. 



310.— AN AWFU' NIGHT. 

[David Macbeth Moir, 1798 — 1851. 

[David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh, 1798. He was educated for, and 
practised the medical profession. He commenced authorship in 181 2, by publishing 
a small volume of poems. At the commencement of " Blackwood's Magazine," he 
became one of its contributors, and continued to write for it till his death. For 
" Blackwood " he wrote the " Autobiography of Mansie Wauch." Dr. Moir was a 
graceful essayist, an elegant minor poet, and a man of some note in his own profession. 
He died 1851.] 

When the voice of man was wheisht, and all was sunk in the sound 
sleep of midnight, it chanced that I was busy dreaming that I was sitting 
ane of the spectawtors, looking at anither playacting piece of business. 
Before coming this length, howsomever, I should by right have ob- 



Moir.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 791 

served, that afore going to bed, I had eaten for my supper pairt of a 
black pudding, and twa sausengers, that Widow Grassie had sent in a 
compliment to my wife, being a genteel woman, and mindful of her 
friends — so that I must have bad some sort of nightmare, and no been 
exactly in my seven senses — else I couldna hae been even dreaming of 
siccan a place. Weel, as I was saying, in the playhouse I thought I 
was 3 and a' atance I heard Maister Wiggie, like ane cr}'ing in the wil- 
derness, halloing with a loud voice through the window, bidding me 
flee from the snares, traps, and gin-nets of the Evil One ; and from the 
terrors of the wrath to come. I was in a terrible funk 3 and just as I 
was trying to rise from the seat, that seemed somehow glued to my 
body and wadna let me, to reach doun my hat, which, with its glazed 
cover, was hinging on a pin to ae side, my face all red, and glowing 
like a fiery furnace, for shame of being a second time caught in deadly 
sin, I heard the kirk-bell jow-jowing, as if it was the last trump, sum- 
moning sinners to their lang and black account j and Maister "Wiggie 
thrust in his arm in his desperation, in a whirlwind of passion, claught- 
ing hold of ray hand like a vice, to drag me out head foremost. Even 
in my sleep, howsomever, it appears that I like free-will, and ken that 
there are nae slaves in our blessed country, so I tried with all my might 
to pull against him, and gied his arm siccan a drive back, that he seemed 
to bleach ower on his side, and raised a hullabuUoo of a yell, that not 
only weukened me, but made me start upright in my bed. For all the 
world such a scene 1 My wife was roaring, '"' ]Murder, murder ! !Mansie 
Wauch, will ye no wauken r ZSIurder, murder I ye've felled me wi' ye're 
nieve — ye've felled me outright — I'm gone for evermair — my haill teeth 
are doun my throat. Will ye no wauken r — Murder, murder ! — I say 
Murder, murder, murder, murder ! ! !" " Wha's murdering us?" cried 
T, throwing my cowl back on the pillow, and rubbing my een in the 
hurry of a tremendous fright. — " Wha's murdering us ? — where's the 
rubbers ? — send for the town-officer !" '' Oh, Mansie ! — oh, Mansie !" 
said Nanse, in a kind of greeting tone, " I daursay ye've felled me — 
but nae matter, now I've gotten ye roused. Do ye no see the haill 
street in a bleeze of flame r Bad is the best ; we maun either be burned 
to death, or out of house and hall, without a rag to cover our naked- 
ness. Where's my son? — where's my dear bairn Benjie ?" In a most 
awful consternation, I jumped at this out to the middle of the floor, 
hearing the causeway all in an uproar of voices ; and seeing the flich- 
tering of the flames glancing on the houses in the opposite side of the 
street, all the windows of which were filled wi' the heads of half-naked 
folks, in round-eared mutches, or kilmarnocks ; their mouths open, and 
their een staring wi' fright j while the sound of the fire-engine, rattling 
through the streets like thunder, seemed like the dead cart of the 



792 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Moir. 

plague, come to hurry away the corpses of the deceased, for interment 
in the kirkyard. 

Never such a spectacle was witnessed since the creation of Adam. 
I pulled up the window^ and lookit out — and lo and behold ! the very 
next house to our ain was a' in a low from cellar to garretj the burn- 
ing joists hissing and cracking like madj and the very wind that blew 
alang, as warm as if it had been out of the mouth o' a baker's oven ! 
It was a most awfu' spectacle ! mair betoken to me, who was likely to 
be intimately concerned wi't3 and beating my brow with my clenched 
nieve, like a distracted creature, I saw that the labour of my haill life 
was likely to gang for nought, and me to be a ruined man, all the earn- 
ings of my industry being laid out on my stock in trade, and on the 
plenishing of our bit house. The darkness of the latter days came 
ower my speerit, like a vision before the prophet Isaiah ; and I could 
see naething in the years to come but beggary and starvation j mysell 
a fallen back auld man, with an out-at-the-elbows coat, a greasy hat, 
and a bell pow, hirpling ower a staff, requeshting an awmous — Nanse 
a broken-hearted beggar wife, torn down to tatters, and weeping like 
Rachel when she thought on better days, and puir wee Benjie ganging 
frae door to door wi' a meal-pock on his back. The thought first 
dung me stupid, and then drave me to desperation ; and not even mind- 
ing the dear wife of my bosom, that had fainted away as dead as a 
herring, I pulled on my trousers like mad, and rushed out into the 
street, bareheaded and barefoot as the day that Lucky Bringthereout 
brought me into the world. 

The crowd saw, in the twinkling of an eyeball, that I was a despe- 
rate man, fierce as Sir William Wallace, and no to be withstood by 
gentle or semple. So maist o' them made way for me ; them that 
tried to stop me finding it a bad job, being heeled ower from right to 
left, on the braid of their backs, like flounders, without respect of age 
or person ; some auld women that were obstrapulous, being gfty sair 
hurt, and ane o' them with a pain in her hainch even to this day. 
When I had got almost to the door-cheek of the burning hoase, I fand 
ane grupping me by the back like grim death ; and in looking ower my 
shouther, wha was it but Nanse hersell, that, rising up from her feint, 
had pursued me like a whirlwind. It was a heavy trial, but my duty 
to mysell in the first place, and to my neibours in the second, roused 
me up to withstand it ; so making a spend like a greyhound, I left the 
hindside of my sark in her grasp, like Joseph's garment in the nieve of 
Potiphar's wife j and up the stairs head foremost amang the flames. 
Mercy keep us a' ! what a sight for mortal man to glour at wi' his 
living een. The bells were tolling amid the dark, like a summons 
from aboon, for the parish of Dalkeith to pack off to anither world j 



Gfattan.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. lij^^ 

the drums were beat, beating as if the French were coming, thousand 
on thousand, to kill, slaj, and devour every maid and mother's son oi 
us -J the tire-engine pump — pump — ^pumping Hke daft, showering the 
water like rainbows, as if the windows of heaven were opened, and 
the days of a old Xoah come back again j and the rabble throwing the 
good furniture ower the windows hke ingan peelings, where it either 
felled the folk below, or was dung to a thousand shivers on the cause- 
way. I cried to them, for the love o' gudeness, to mak search in the 
beds, in case there might be onv weans there, human lite being still 
more precious than human means, but no a living soul was seen but a 
cat, which, being raised and wild with the din, wad onnae consideration 
allow itsell to be catched. Jacob Dribble fand that to his cost: for 
right or wrang, having a drappie in his head, he swore like a trooper 
that he wad catch her, and cany her down aneath his oxter 3 so forrit 
he weared her inro a corner, croutching down on his hunkers. He had 
rauckle better have let it alane ; for it ftiffed ower his shouther like wull- 
hre, and scarting his back all the way down, jumped like a lamplighter 
head foremost through the flames, where, in the raging and roaring of 
the devouring element, its pitiful cries were soon hushed to silence for 
ever and ever. Amen ! — Autoliography of Mansie Wauch. 



311.— DEATH AND CHARACTER OF WILLLIM THE SILENT, 
PRINCE OF OFJ^NGE. 

[Thomas Collet Grattax, 1796 — 1864. 

[Thomas Collky Grattav, son of ColIe\- Grattan, Esq., of Edenbeny, King's Coontf, 
was born in Dublin, 1 796. Marrying and setding in the Soath of France, he adopted 
authorship as a pro^ion. He became a freqaent contributor to the **New 
iVIonthly Magazine " while it was edited by the poet Campbell ; he also wrote §at 
the " Edinburgh Re-view." In 1823 he published the first series of his " Highw^s 
and Byeways/'' which proving very successful, a second and third series followed in 
rapid succession. Mr. Grattan also wrote "Traits of Travel," " Heiress of Bruges," 
" Jacqueline of Holland," " History- of the Netherlands." These works were published 
during his residence at Brussels. From thence he removed to Holland, and thence 
to Heidelberg, where he wrote "Legends of the Rhine" and **Agnes Mansfeldt" 
He returned to Brussels when Leopold L was proclaimed king, and at that prince's 
special request was appointed British Consul to the state of Massachusetts in 1839. 
In 1848 he was allowed as an especial fevour to resign this post to his son. He 
was next appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber in Her Slajesry's Household. 
His latest and most serious work was on " Civilized America." Mr. Grattan died 
1864.] 

From the moment of their abandonment by the Duke of Anjou, the 
United Provinces considered themselves independent j and although 
they consented to renew his authority over the country at large, at 
the solicitation of the Prince of Orange, they were resolved to confirm 



794 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Grattan. 

the influence of the latter over their particular interests/ which they 
were now sensible could acquire stability only by that means.* The 
death of Anjou left them without a sovereign ; and they did not hesi- 
tate in the choice which they were now called upon to make. On 
whom, indeed, could they fix but William of Nassau, without the 
utmost injustice to him, and the deepest injury to themselves ? To 
whom could they turn, in preference to him who had given consis- 
tency to the early explosion of their despair ; to him who first gave 
the country political existence, then nursed it into freedom, and now 
beheld it in the vigour and prime of independence ? He had seen 
the necessity, but certainly overrated the value of foreign support, to 
enable the new state to cope with the tremendous tyranny from which 
it had broken. He had tried successively Germany, England, and 
France. From the first and the last of these powers he had received 
two governors, to whom he cheerfully resigned the title. The incapa- 
city of both, and the treachery of the latter, proved to the states that 
their only chance for safety was in the consolidation of William's 
authority 3 and they contemplated the noblest reward which a grateful 
nation could bestow on a glorious liberator. And is it to be believed, 
that he who for twenty years had sacrificed his repose, lavished his 
fortune, and risked his life, for the public cause, now aimed at absolute 
dominion, or coveted a despotism which all his actions prove him to 
have abhorred ? Defeated bigotry has put forward such vapid accu- 
sations. He has been also held responsible for the early cruelties 
which, it is notorious, he used every means to avert, and frequently 
punished. But while these revolting acts can only be viewed in the 
light of reprisals against the bloodiest persecution that ever existed, by 
exasperated men driven to vengeance by a bad example, not one single 
act of cruelty or bad faith has ever been made good against William, 
who may be safely pronounced one of the wisest and best men held 
up by history as examples to the species. 

The authority of one author has been produced to prove that, during 
the lifetime of his brother Louis, offers were made to him by France, 
of the sovereignty of the northern provinces, on condition of the 
southern being joined to the French crown. f That he ever accepted 
those offers is without proof: that he never acted on them is certain. 
But he might have been justified in purchasing freedom for those states 
which had so well earned it, at the price even of a qualified independence 
under another power, to the exclusion of those which had never heartily 
struggled against Spain. The best evidence, however, of William's 
real views is to be found in the Capitulation, as it is called j that is to 



* Mctcrcn. f Amelot de la Houssaye. 



Grattan.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 795 

say, the act which was on the point of being executed between him and 
the states, when a base fanatic, instigated by a bloody tyrant, pat a period 
to his splendid career. This capitulation exists at full length,* but 
was never formally executed. Its conditions are founded on the same 
principles, and conceived in nearly the same terms, as those accepted 
by the Duke of Anjou^ and the whole compact is one of the most 
thoroughly liberal that history has on record. The Prince repaired to 
Delft for the ceremony of his inauguration, the price of his long 
labours J but there, instead of the anticipated dignity, he met the sudden 
stroke of death. f 

On the loth of July, as he left his dining-room, and while he placed 
his foot on the first step of the great stair leading to the upper apart- 
ments of his house, a man named Balthasar Gerard (who, like the 
former assassin, waited for him at the moment of convivial relaxation), 
discharged a pistol at his body : three balls entered it. He fell into 
the arms of an attendant, and cried out faintly, in the French language, 
** God pity me ! I am sadly wounded — God have mercy on my soul, 
and on this unfortunate nation 1 " His sister, the Countess of Swart- 
zenberg, who now hastened to his side, asked him in German, if he 
did not recommend his soul to God? He answered, "Yes," in the 
same language, but with a feeble voice. He was carried into the 
dining-room, where he immediately expired. His sister closed his 
eyes :% his wife too was on the spot, — Louisa, daughter of the illus- 
trious Coligny, and widow of the gallant Count of Teligny, both of 
whom were also murdered almost in her sight, in the frightful mas- 
sacre of St. Bartholomew. We may not enter on a description of the 
afflicting scene which followed : but the mind is pleased in picturing 
the bold solemnity with which Prince Maurice, then eighteen years 
of age, swore — not vengeance or hatred against his father's murderers, 
but that he would faithfully and religiously follow the glorious example 
he had given him.§ 

* Bor. liv. 15, p. 203. t Grotius. % La Pise, Hist, des Princes d'Orange. 

§ Whoever would really enjoy the spirit of historical details should never omit an 
opportunity of seeing places rendered memorable by associations connected with the 
deeds, and especially with the death, of great men: the spot, for instance, where 
William was assassinated at Delft; the old staircase he was just on the point of 
ascending; the narrow pass between that and the dining-hall whence he came out, of 
scarcely sufficient extent for the murderer to hold forth his arm and his pistol, 2i feet long. 
This weapon, and its fellow, are both preserved in the museum of the Hague, together 
with two of the fatal bullets, and the very clothes which the victim wore. The leathern 
doublet, pierced by the balls and burned by the powder, lies beside the other parts of 
the dress, the simple gravity of which, in fashion and colour, irresistibly brings the 
wise great man before us, and adds a hundredfold to the interest excited by a recital 
of his murder. 



796 TEE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Duff-Gordon. 

There is but one important feature in the character of William 
'which we have hitherto left untouched^ but which the circumstances 
of his death seemed to sanctify, and point ont for record in the same 
page with it. We mean his religioos opinions ; and we shall despatch 
a subject which is, in regard to all men, so delicate, indeed so sacred, 
in a few words. He was bom a Lutheran. When he arrived, a 
boy, at the Court of Charles V., he was initiated into the Catholic 
creed, in which he was thenceforward brought up. Afterwards, when 
he could think for himself, and choose his profession of faith, he em- 
braced the doctrine of Calvin. His whole public conduct seems to 
prove that he viewed sectarian principles chiefly in the light of poli- 
tical instruments j and that, himself a conscientious Christian, in the 
broad sense of the term, he was deeply imbued with the spirit of 
universal toleration, and considered the various shades of belief as 
subservient to the one grand principle of civil and religious libert}% 
for which he had long devoted and at length laid down his life. His 
assassin was taken alive, and four days afterwards executed with 
terrible circumstances of cruelty, which he bore as a martyr might 
have borne them.* — History of the Netherlands, oh., xii. pp. 170-173. 



31:.— THEBES IN i$6S. 

[Lady Duff-Gordon-. 182 i — 1869. 

[Lady Duff-Gordok, nee Lucie Austin, was the daughter of Mrs. Austin, and the 
wife of Sir Alexander Duff-Gordon, Bart., a commissioner of inland revenue. In- 
heriting her mother's talents for languages and literamre, she translated many 
valuable works into English. Amongst these are Niebuhr's " Greek Legends," 
published during her girlhood, "The Amber Witch," "The French in Algiers,"' 
Ranke's "History of Prussia," Motte's "Russian Campaigns of 182S-29 on the 
Danube," ice ^c Lady Duff-Gordon died in 1869.] 

I CANXOT describe to you the miser}- here now — indeed it is wearisome 
even to think of: ever}' day some new tax. Now ever}- beast — 
camel, cow, sheep, donkey, horse — is made to pay. The fellaheen 
can no longer eat bread j they are living on barle}'-meal mixed with 
water, and raw green stuff — vetches, &c., which to people used to 
good food is terrible, and I see all my acquaintances growing seedy 
and ragged and anxious; the taxation makes hfe almost impossible : 
100 piastres per feddan as tax on ever}- crop, on every animal lirst, 
and then again when it is sold in the market, and a tax on ever}' man, 
on charcoal, on butter, on salt. I wonder I am not tormented for 
money 3 but not above three people have tried to beg or borrow. 



* Le Petit, Histoire des Pays Bas, 



Du£F-Gordon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 797 

Thanks for the Westminster Epilogue : it always amuses me much. 
So Terence was a nigger ! I would tell Rachmeh so if I could make 
him understand who Terence was, and that he — Rachmeh — stood in 
need of any encouragement j but the worthy fellow never imagines 
that his skin is in any way inferior to mine. There is no trace of the 
nigger-boy in Terence's r)a\'us. My nigger-boy Mabrook has grown 
huge, and developed a voice of thunder 3 he is of the elephantine 
rather than the tiger species — a very wild young savage. If he goes, 
1 am tempted to take Yussuf s nice little Denka girl to replace him -, 
but a girl is such an impossibility where there is no regular hareem. 
In the boat, x^chmet is enough under Omar, but in this huge, dusty 
house, and with errands to run, and comers and goers to look after, 
pipes and coffee and the Lke, it takes two boys to be comfortable. It 
is surprising how fast these Arab boys learn, and how well they do 
their work. Achmet, who is quite little, would be a perfectly suffi- 
cient servant for a man alone. He can cook, wash, clean the rooms, 
make the beds, do all the table service, knife and plate cleaning, all 
very well. Mabrook is slower, but has the same merit our poor 
Hassan had — he never forgets what he has been told to do, and he is 
clean in his work, though hopelessly dirty as to his clothes. He can- 
not get used to them, and takes a roll in the dirt, or leans against a 
dirty mud wall, quite forgetting his clean washed blue shirt. Achmet 
is quicker, and more careless 5 but they are both good boys, and very 
fond of Omar. ** Uncle Omar" is the form of address, though he 
scolds them pretty severely if they misbehave j and I observe that the 
high jinks take place chiefly when only I am in the way, and Omar 
gone to market or to the mosque. The httle rogues have found out 
that their laughing does not " affect my nerves," and I am often 

treated to a share in the joke. How I wish R could see the 

children J they would amu^e her. Yussuf s girl, " Meer en Nezzil," 
is a charming child and very clever : her emphatic way of explaining 
anything to me, and her gestures, would delight you. Her coasin 
and future husband, aged five (she is six), broke her doll which I had 
given her, and her description of it was most dramatic — ending with 
a wheedling glance at the cupboard, and " of course there are no 
more dolls there." She is a fine little creature, far more Arab than 
Fellaha, quite a shaitaji, her father says. She came in, full of making 
cakes for Bairara, and offered her ser\-ices. " Oh, my aunt, if thou 
wantest anything, I can work," said she, tucking up her sleeves. 

It is warm and fine enough now, and I am a good deal better j 
Mustafa has found me a milk-camel at last 3 — no easy matter, as all 
our camels are now taken to work. You cannot think what the war 
in Crete is to the people here 3 they who take no sort of pleasure in 



798 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Beaumont and Fletcher. 

killing Christians^ and only hate leaving their families^ and the cold 
and misery ! 

The last regulations have stopped all money-lending j and the 
prisons &re full of " Sheykhs el Beled," whose villages cannot pay 
their taxes. Most respectable men have offered me to go partners 
with them now in their wheat, which will be cut in six weeks, if only 
I would pay their taxes now : I to take half the crop, and half the 
taxes, with interest out of their half, — some such trifle as thirty per 
cent, per month. A Greek at Koos is doing this business ; but, as he 
knows the people here, he accepts none but such as are vouched for 
by good '^cadees," and he will not lose a feddan. Our prison is full 
of men, and we send them their dinners in turns. The other day a 
woman went with the big wooden bowl on her head full of what she 
had cooked for them, accompanied by her husband. A certain 
Effendi, a new Vakeel here, was there, and said, "What dost thou 

ask here, thou ?" calling her by an opprobrious name. Her 

husband said, " She is my wife, O Effendi !" Whereupon he was 
beaten till he fainted, and then there was a lamentation. They 
carried him down past my house with a crowd of women all shrieking 
like mad creatures, especially his wife, who yelled and beat her head, 
and threw dust over it, more majorum as you may see on the tombs. 
Such are the humours of tax-gathering in this country. The distress 
in England is terrible, but at least it is not the result of extortion like 
it is here, where everything from nature is so abundant and glorious, 
and yet mankind so miserable. It is not a little hunger, it is the cruel 
oppression which maddens the people now. They never complained 
before, but now whole villages are deserted, and thousands have run 
away into the desert between this and Assouan. — MacmiUan s Maga- 
zine for June, 1868. 



313.— THE COWARDLY CAPTAIN. 

[Beaumont (1585 — 1615) and Fletcher, 1576 — 1625. 

[Fravcis Beaumont was the younger brother of Sir John Beaumont, a judge of the 
Common Pleas, who was knighted by Charles I. He wrote in conjunction with his 
friend John Fletcher; they had one house, and, it is recorded, wore the same clothes 
in common. The " indelicacies and indecorums" which abound in their plays, 
though attractive in their own day, would not be tolerated in this— any more than, 
we hope, the present taste for the simply horrible will be tolerated when another 
change comes o'er the spirit of fiction. It has been ascertained that Beaumont 
and Fletcher wrote in partnership seventeen plays, Beaumont, by himself, a masque 
and one play, which has been lost; Fletcher, four by himself, in Beaumont's life- 
time, and twenty-eight after the death of Beaumont, besides several in which he 
was assisted by Shakspeare, Jonson, Massinger, Rowley, Middleton, and others. 
Beaumont was born 15S5, and died 1615. John Fletcher was the son of the Bishop 



Beaumont and Fletcher.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 799 

of London, and was educated at Cambridge. It was said of the partnership that 
"he found the fancy and Beaumont the judgment." Fletcher was born 1576, and 
died of the plague in London, 1625. He was buried in St. Saviour's, Southwark.] 

CHARACTERS. 

Captain Bessus^ a Gentleman. 

Scene. — A Room in the House of Bessus. 

Enter Bessus. 

Bes. They talk of fame ; I have gotten it in the wars, and will afford 
any man a reasonable pennyworth. Some will say, they could be 
content to have it, but that it is to be achieved with danger 3 but my 
opinion is otherwise : for if I might stand still in cannon proof, and 
have fame fall upon me, I would refuse it. My reputation came prin- 
cipally by thinking to run away, which nobody knows but Mardonius ; 
and, I think, he conceals it to anger me. Before I went to the wars, 
I came to the town a young fellow without means or parts to deserve 
friends ; and my empty stomach persuaded me to lie, and abuse people, 
for my meat ; which I did, and they beat me. Then would I fast two 
days, till my hunger cried out on me, "Rail still:" then, methought, 
I had a monstrous stomach to abuse 'em again, and did it. In this 
state I continued, till they hung me up by the heels and beat me with 
hazel sticks, as if they would have baked me, and have cozened some- 
body with me for venison. After this I railed and eat quietly ; for the 
whole kingdom took notice of me for a baffled, whipped fellow, and 
what I said was remembered in mirth, but never in anger, of which I 
was glad. I would it were at that pass again ! After this. Heaven 
called an aunt of mine, that left two hundred pounds in a cousin's 
hand for me j who, taking me to be a gallant young spirit, raised a 
company for me with the money, and sent me into Armenia with 'em. 
Away I would have run from them, but that I could get no company ; 
and alone I durst not run. I was never at battle but once, and there 
T was running, but Mardonius cudgelled me : yet I got loose at last, 
but was so afraid that I saw no more than my shoulders do j but fled 
with my whole company amongst my enemies, and overthrew 'em. 
Now the report of ray valour is come ov^er before me, and they say I 
was a raw young fellow, but now I am improved. A plague on their 
eloquence! 'twill cost me many a beating; and Mardonius might 
help this too, if he would ; for now they think to get honour on me, 
and all the men I have abused call me freshly to account (worthily, as 
they call it), by the way of challenge. 

Enter a Gentleman. 
Gent. Good-morrow, Captain Bessus. 



8od 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Beaumont and Fletcher. 



Bes. Good-morrow, sir. 

Gent. I come to speak with you 

Bes. You're very welcome. 

Gent. From one tliat holds himself wronged by you some three 
years since. Your worth he says is famed, and he doth nothing doubt 
but you will do him right, as beseems a soldier. 

Bes. A plague on 'em ; so they cry all ! 

Gent. And a slight note I have about me for you, for the delivery of 
which you must excuse me. It is an office that .friendship calls upon 
me to do, and no way offensive to you 3 since I desire but right on 
both sides. {Gives him a letter.) 

Bes. 'Tis a challenge, sir, is it not ? 

Gent. 'Tis an inviting to the field. 

Bes. An inviting ? Oh, cry you mercy ! — What a compliment he 
delivers it with ? he might as agreeably to my nature, present me 
poison with such a speech. (Reads). Um, um, um, — Reputation — 
um, um, um — call you to account — um, um, um— forced to this — um, 
um, um — with my sword — um, um, um — like a gentleman — um, um, 
um — dear to me — um, um, um — satisfaction. — 'Tis very well, sir 3 I 
do accept it ; but he must wait an answer this thirteen weeks. 

Gent. Why, sir, he would be glad to wipe off this stain as soon as 
he could. 

Bes. Sir, upon my credit, I am already engaged to two hundred and 
twelve ; all which must have their stains wiped off, if that be the 
word, before him. 

Gent. Sir, if you be truly engaged but to one, he shall stay a com- 
petent time. 

Bes. Upon my faith, sir, to two hundred and twelve; and I have a 
spent body, too much bruised in battle ; so that I cannot fight, I must 
be plain, above three combats a day. All the kindness I can show him 
is to set him resolvedly in my roll, the two hundred and thirteenth 
man, which is something; for, I tell you, I think there will be more 
after him than before him ; I think so. Pray you commend me to 
him, and tell him this. 

Gent. I will, sir. Good-morrow to you. 

[Exit Gentleman. 

Bes. Good-morrow, good sir. — Certainly, my safest way were to 
print myself a coward, with a discovery how I came by my credit, and 
clap it upon every post. I have received above thirty challenges within 
these two hours. Marry, all but the first I put off with engagement; 
and, by good fortune, the first is no madder of fighting than I ; so that 
that's referred. The place where it must be ended is four days' journey 
off, and our arbitrators are these — he has chosen a gentleman in travel. 



Lockhart.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 8oi 



and I ha\re a special friend with a quartan ague, like to hold him this 
tiv^e years, for mine ; and when his man comes home we are to expect 
my friend's health. If they would send me challenges thus thick, as 
long as 1 lived, I would have no other living : I can make seven shillings 
a day o' th' paper to the grocers. Yet I learn nothing by all these 
but a little skill in comparing of styles : I do find, evidently, that there 
is some one scrivener in this town, that has a great hand in writing of 
challenges, for they are all of a cut, and six of 'em in a hand ; and they 
all end, '' My reputation is dear to me, and I must require satisfaction." 
— ^W^ho's there ? ^More paper, I hope. No ; 'tis my Lord Bacurius. 
I fear all is not well betwixt us. — A King and no King. 



314.— ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. 

[J. G. Lockhart, 1793 — 1854. 

[John Gibson Lockhart was sometime editor of the "Quarterly Review," and son- 
in-law of Sir Walter Scott: thus his name is linked with the literary history 
of his own time, had it not been associated with his romances, " Valerius," " Adam 
Biair," " Reg;inald Dalton," and " Matthew Wald ;" with his biographies of Burns 
and Napoleon, his " Peter^s Letters to his Kinsfolk," and his splendid rendering of 
the " Spanish Ballads." In his capacity of editor and critic, Mr. Lockhart was of 
the " savage and tartarly " clique, who saw no merit on this side of the Tweed ; but 
he was a false prophet, and lived to see his "This will never do," do in spite of him. 
In 1843 he was presented with a sinecure of 400/. a year, which he enjoyed lill 
his death in 1854. He was born in 1 793. His father was the Rev. Dr. John 
Lockhart, minister of the College Church, Glasgow. Mr. Lockhart distinguished 
himself both at the Glasgow University and at Balliol College, Oxford. He was his 
fether-in-law's literary executor, and published the well-known Life of Scott, in 
9 vols., 1834-5.] 

"My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropt into the well. 
And what to say to Muca, I cannot, cannot tell." 
'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter — 
" The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water. 
To me did Muca give them, when he spake his sad farewell. 
And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. 

" My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set, 
• That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget. 
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's 

tale. 
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings 

pale. 
When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in 

the well, 
Oh ! what will Muca think of me, I cannot, cannot tell. 

3 F 



8o2 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Cave. 



" My- ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have been. 
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen. 
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamonds shining clear. 
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere — 
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well- 
Thus will he think — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. 

*' He'll think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way j 
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads- might say 5 
He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses noosed. 
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl 

unloosed ; 
He'll think when I was sporting so, beside this marble well. 
My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! T cannot tell. 

*' He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same j 
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame — 
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken, 
And thought no more of Muca, and cared not for his token. 
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! oh ! luci^less, luckless well I 
For v/hat to say to Muca, alas ! I cannot tell. 

" I'll tell the truth to Muca, and I hope he will believe — 
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve j 
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, 
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone j 
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they 

fell. 
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well." 

— Ajicient Spanish, Ballads, 



3i5._DEATH AND CHARACTER OF ST. PETER. 

[The Rev. William Cave, D.D., 1637— 1713. 

• 

[William Cave, a distinguished English divine, was born in 1637, at Pickwell, in 

Leicestershire, the living of which parish was held by his father, a man of learning 

and piety. He was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge. He was presented to 

the Vicarage of Islmgton in 1662, and soon afterwards was made Chaplain in 

Ordinary to Charles II. In 1681 his merits as a scholar obtained for him the 

Rectory of Allhallows, and a Canonry in Windsor; but finding that the heavy 

duties of his London parishes hindered his important labours as an historian of 

Christianity, he gladly exchanged them for the quiet Vicarage of Isleworth, where he 

devoted his talents to the service of religion as an author. He died at Windsor 



Cave.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 803 

1 7 13, and is buried in Islington Cliurch, where there is a monument to his memory. 
His chief works are " Primitive Christianity," " Lives of the Apostles and Martyrs," 
and " Historia Literaria/'] 

Nero returning from Achaia, and entering Rome with a great deal of 
pomp and triumph, resolved now the apostle should fall as a victim 
and sacrifice to his cruelty and revenge. While the fatal stroke was 
daily expected, the Christians in Rome did, by daily prayers and im- 
portunities, solicit St. Peter to make an escape, and to reserve himseh 
to the uses and services of the church. This at first he rejected, as 
what would ill reflect upon his courage and constancy, and argue him 
to be afraid of those sufferings for Christ to which he himself had so 
often persuaded others ; but the prayers and tears of the people over- 
came him, and made him yield. Accordingly the next night, having 
prayed with, and taken his farewell of the brethren, he got over the 
prison wall 5 and coming to the city gate, he is there said to have met 
with our Lord, who was just entering into the city. Peter asked him, 
'^ Lord, whither art thou going? " From whom he presently received 
this answer, " I am come to Rome, to be crucified a second time." 
By which answer Peter apprehended himself to be reproved, and that 
our Lord meant it of his death, that he was to be crucified in his 
servant. Whereupon he went back to the prison, and delivered him- 
self mto the hands of his keepers, showing himself most ready and 
cheerful to acquiesce in the will of God. And we are told, that in the 
stone wdiereon our Lord stood while he talked with Peter, he left the 
impression of his feetj which stone has been preserved as a very 
sacred relic, and after several translations was at length fixed in the 
church of St. Sebastian the martyr, where it is kept and visited with 
great expressions of reverence and devotion at this day. Before his 
suffering he was, no question, scourged; according to the manner of 
the Romans, who were wont first to whip those malefactors who were 
adjudged to the most severe and capital punishments. Having saluted 
his brethren, and especially having taken his last farewell of St. Paul, 
he was brought out of the prison, and led to the top of Vatican Mount, 
near to Tiber, the place designed for his execution. The death he 
was adjudged to was crucifixion; as of all others accounted the most 
shameful, so the most severe and terrible. But he entreated the 
fav^our of the officers, that he might not be crucified in the ordinary 
way, but might suffer with his head downwards, and his feet up to 
heaven ; affirming that he was unworthy to suffer in the same posture 
wherein his Lord had suffered before him. Happy man (as Chryso- 
stom glosses) to be set in the readiest posture of travelling from 
earth to heaven. His body being taken from the cross, is said to have 
been embalmed by Marcellinus the presbyter, after the Jewish manner, 

3 F 2 



8o4 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 



[Cave. 



and was then buried in the Vatican, near the triumphal way. Over 
his grave a small church was soon after erected ; which being de- 
stroyed by Heliogabalus, his body was removed to the cemetery in the 
Appian way, two miles from Romej where it remained till the time 
of pope Cornelius, who reconveyed it to the Vatican, where it 
rested somewhat obscurely till the reign of Constantine j who, out of 
the mighty reverence which he had for the Christian religion, caused 
many churches to be built at Rome, but especially rebuilt and enlarged 
the Vatican to the honour of St. Peter. In the doing whereof him- 
self is said to have been the first that began to dig the foundation, and 
to have carried thence twelve baskets of rubbish with his own hand ; 
in honour, as it should seem, of the twelve apostles. He infinitely en- 
riched the church with gifts and ornaments, which in every age 
increased in splendour and riches, till it is become one of the wonders 
of the world at this day j of whose glories, stateliness, and beauty, and 
those many venerable monuments of antiquity that are in it, they who 
desire to know more, may be plentifully satisfied by Onuphrius. Only, 
one amongst the rest must not be forgotten j there being kept that 
very wooden chair wherein St. Peter sat when he was at Rome, by the 
only touching whereof many miracles are said to be performed. But 
surely Baronius's wisdom and gravity were from home when speaking 
of this chair: and fearing that heretics would imagine that it might be 
rotten in so long a time, he tells us, that it is no wonder that this chair 
should be preserved so long, when Eusebius affirms, that the wooden 
chair of St. James, bishop of Jerusalem, was extant in the time of 
Constantine. But the cardinal, it seems, forgot to consider that 
there is some difference between three and sixteen hundred years. But 
of this enough. St. Peter was crucified, according to the common 
computation, in the year of Christ 69, and the thirteenth (or, as 
Eusebius, the fourteenth) of Nero 3 how truly may be inquired 
afterwards. 

Having run through the current history of St. Peter's life, it may 
not be amiss in the next place to survey a little his person and temper. 
His body (if we may believe the description given of him by 
Nicephorus) was somewhat slender, of a middle size, but rather 
inclining to tallness ; his complexion very pale, and almost white j the 
hair of his head and beard curled and thick, but withal short : though 
St. Jerome tells, out of Clemens's Periods, that he was bald 3 which pro- 
bably might be in his declining age. His eyes black, but specked with 
red } which Baronius will have to proceed from his frequent weeping : 
his eyebrows thin or none at all j his nose long, but rather broad 
and flat than sharp. Such was the case and outside. Let us next 
look inwards, and view the jewel that was within. Take him as a 



Cave.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 805 

man, and there seems to have been a natural eagerness predominant in 
his temper, which as a whetstone sharpened his soul for all bold and 
generous undertakings. It was this, in a great measure, that made him 
so forward to speak, and to return answers, sometimes before he had 
well considered them. It was this made him expose his person to the 
most imminent dangers, promise those great things in behalf of his 
master, and resolutely draw his sword in his quarrel against a whole 
band of soldiers, and wound the high-priest's servant : and possibly he 
had attempted greater matters, had not our Lord restrained and taken 
him oiF by that seasonable check that he gave him. 

This temper he owed in a great measure to the genius and nature of 
his country, of which Josephus gives this true character : That it 
naturally bred in men a certain fierceness and animosity, whereby they 
were fearlessly carried out upon any action, and in all things showed a 
great strength and courage both of mind and body. The Galileans 
(says he) being fighters from their childhood ; the men being as seldom 
overtaken with cowardice as their country with want of men. And 
yet, notwithstanding this, his fervour and fierceness had its intervals 3 
there being some times when the paroxysms of his heat and courage 
did intermit, and the man was surprised and betrayed by his own fears. 
Witness his passionate crying out when he was upon the sea, in danger 
of his life, and his fearful deserting his master in the garden ; but 
especially his carriage in the high-priest's hall, when the confident 
charge of a sorry maid made him sink so far beneath himself j and, 
notwithstanding his great and resolute promises, so shamefully deny 
his master, and that with curses and imprecations. But he was in 
danger, and passion prevailed over his understanding, and fear betrayed 
the succours which reason offered ; and being intent upon nothing but 
the present safety of his life, he heeded not what he did, when he dis- 
owned his master to save himself. So dangerous is it to be left to our- 
selves, and to have our natural passions let loose upon us. 

Consider him as a disciple and a Christian, and we shall find him 
exemplary in the great instances of religion, singular in his humility 
and lowliness of mind. With what a passionate earnestness, upon the 
conviction of a miracle, did he beg of our Saviour to depart from him ; 
accounting himself not worthy that the Son of God should come 
near so vile a sinner ? When our Lord, by that wondertul con- 
descension, stooped to wash his apostles' feet, he could by no means 
be persuaded to admit it j not thinking it fit that so great a person 
should submit himself to so servile an office towards so mean a person 
as himself; nor could he be induced to accept it, till our Lord was in 
a manner forced to threaten him into obedience. When Cornelius, 
heightened in his apprehensions of him by an immediate command 



8o6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Boyd. 

from God concerning him, would have entertained him with ex* 
pressions of more than ordinary honour and veneration, so far was he 
from complying with it, that he plainly told him, he was no other 
than such a man as himself. With how much candour and modesty 
does he treat the inferior rulers and ministers of the church ! He, 
upon whom antiquity heaps so many honourable titles, styling himself 
no other than their fellow-presbyter. Admirable his love to, and zeal 
for his master, which he thought he could never express at too high a 
rate : for his sake venturing on the greatest dangers, and exposing 
himself to the most imminent hazards of life. It was in his quarrel 
that he drew his sword against a band of soldiers, and an armed mul- 
titude 3 and it was love to his master that drew him into that im- 
prudent advice, that he should seek to save himself, and avoid those 
sufferings that were coming upon him ; that made him promise and 
engage so deep to sutler and die with him. Great was his forward- 
ness in owning Christ to be the Messiah and Son of God j which 
drew from our Lord that honourable encomium, " Blessed art thou, 
Simon Bar-Jonah." — Lives of the Apostles, vol. i. sections 9 and 10. 



316.— PREVISIONS. 

[The Rev. Andrew Kennedy Hutchison Boyd, B.A., 1825. 

[Andrew K. H. Boyd was born in November, 1825, at Auchinleck, in Ayrshire, of 
which parish his ftitlier was incumbent, tie was educated at the University of 
Glasgow, where he took the usual degrees. He was ordained in 1851, He first 
became known as a writer by articles which appeared in " Fraser," signed A.K.H.B. 
The most important of these have been re-issued in a collected form, under the 
titles of ''Recreations of a Country Parson," "Leisure Hours in Town," &c. &c.] 

Have you ever read the " Life of Mansie Wauch, Tailor of Dal- 
keith," by that pleasing poet and most amiable man, the late David 
ALicbeth Moir r I have been looking into it lately, and I have regretted 
much that the Lowland Scotch dialect is so imperfectly understood in 
England J and that, even where so understood, its raciness is so little felt; 
for great as is the popularity of that work, it is much less known than 
it deserves to be. Only a Scotchman can thoroughly appreciate it. It 
is curious, and yet it is not curious, to find the pathos and the polish 
of one of the most touching and elegant of poets in the man who has 
with such irresistible humour, sometimes approaching to the farcical, 
delineated humble Scottish life. One passage in the book always struck 
me very much. We have in it the poet as well as the humorist. 
* * * * I mean the passage in which Mansie tells us of a sudden 
glimpse which, in circumstances of mortal terror, he once had of the 



Boyd.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 80^ 

future. On a "certain awful night," the tailor was awakened by cries of 
alarm, and looking out he saw the next house to his own was on fire 
from cellar to garret. The earnings of poor Mansie's whole life were 
laid out on his stock-in-trade and his furniture, and it appeared likely 
that these would be at once destroyed. 

"Then," says he, "the darkness of the latter days came over my 
spirit like a vision before the prophet Isaiah; and I could see nothing 
in the years to come but beggary and starvation — myself a fallen-back 
old man, with an out-at-the-elbows coat, a greasy hat, and a bald 
brow, hirpling over a staif" requeshting an awmous -, Nanse a broken- 
hearted beggar wife torn down to tatters, and weeping like Rachel 
when she thought on better days ; and poor wee Benjie going from 
door to door with a meal-pock on his back." 

Ah, there is exquisite pathos there, as well as humour; but the thing 
for which I have quoted that sentence is its startling truthfulness. 
You have all done what Mansie Wauch did, I know. Every one has 
his own way of doing it, and it is his own special picture which each 
sees. But there has appeared to us, as to Mansie (1 must refer to my 
old figure), as it were a sadden rift in the clouds that conceal the 
future, and we have seen the way, far ahead — the dusty way — and 
an aged pilgrim pacing slowly along it ; and in that aged figure we 
have each recognised our own young self. •* -x- * * -x- * * 

Personal identity continued through the successive stages of life is a 
commonplace thing to think of 3 but when it is brought home to 
your own case and feeling, it is a very touching and a very bewildering 
thing. There are the same trees and hills as when you were a boy j 
and when each of us comes to his last days in this world, how short 
a space it will seem since we were little children ! Let us humbly 
hope that in that brief space, parting the cradle from the grave, we 
may (by help from above) have accomplished a certain work which 
will cast its blessed influence over all the years and all the ages before 
us. Yet it remains a strange thing to look forward and to see yourself 
with grey hair, and not much even of that, to see your wife an old 
woman, and your little boy or girl grown up into manhood or woman- 
hood. It is more strange still to fancy you see them all going on as 
usual in the round of life, and you no longer among them. You see 
your empty chair." There is your writing-table and your inkstand; 
there are your books, not so carefully arranged as they used to be ; 
perhaps, on the whole, less indication than you might have have hoped 
that they miss you. All this is strange when you bring it home to 
your own case ; and that hundreds of millions have felt the like 
makes it not the less strange to you. The commonplaces of life and 
death are not commonplace when they befal ourselves. It was in 



8o8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Goldsmith. 

desperate hurry and agitation that Mansie Wauch saw his vision j and 
in like circumstances you may have yours too. But for the most part 
such moods come in leisure — in saunterings through the autumn 
woods — in reveries by the winter fire. — Leisure Hours in Town. Con- 
cerning Future Years. Chap. ii. 



317.— THE VICAR IN PRISON. 

[Oliver Goldsmith, 1728 — 1774. 
[This great genius, a specimen of whose power as an essayist is given at page 530, has 
written one of the finest novels in our language. It would be unjust, in a collection 
of readings from modern literature, to represent Goldsmith only by his essay on 
" Quack Doctors," and not by his masterpiece of fiction. We therefore subjoin the 
following extract, which will strike the modern reader as manifesting a wisdom 
and benevolence far beyond that of the age in which Goldsmith lived.] 

The next morning, I communicated to my wife and children the 
scheme I had planned of reforming the prisoners^ which they received 
with universal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility and impro- 
priety of it 3 adding that my endeavours would no way contribute to 
their amendment, but might probably disgrace my calling. 

*' Excuse me," returned 1 3 " these people, however fallen, are still 
men ; and that is a very good title to my affections. Good counsel 
rejected, returns to enrich the giver's bosom ; and though the instruc- 
tion I communicate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly mend 
myself. If these wretches, my children, were princes, there would be 
thousands ready to offer their ministry; but, in my opinion, the heart 
that is buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. 
Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, I will : perhaps they will not 
all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulf, and 
that will be great gain 3 for is there upon earth a gem so precious as 
the human soul ?" 

Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common prison, 
where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival ; and 
each prepared with some gaol trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as 
I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and 
tlien asked my pardon. A second, who stood at some distance, had 
a knack of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my 
book. A third would cry "Amen" in such an affected tone, as gave the 
rest great delight. A fourth had slily picked my pocket of my spec- 
tacles. But there was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure 
than all the rest ; for, observing the manner in which I had disposed 
my books on the table before me, he very dexterously displaced one 
of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his own in the place. How- 



Goldsmith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 809 

ever, J took no notice of all that this mischievous group of little beings 
could do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in 
my attempt would excite mirth only the first or second time, while 
what was serious would be permanent. My design succeeded, and in 
less than six days some were penitent, and all attentive. 

It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, at thus 
giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feehng, and now 
began to think of doing them temporal services also, by rendering 
their situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto 
been divided between famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter 
repining. Their only employment was quarrelling among each other, 
playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this last 
mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting such as chose to work 
at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood 
being bought by a general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold 
by my appointment; so that each earned something every day — a 
trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. 

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of im- 
morality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus, in less than a 
fortnight I had formed them into something social and humane, and 
had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had brought 
men from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience. 

And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would thus 
direct the law rather to reformation than severity : that it would seem 
convinced, that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making 
punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead of our present 
prisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches for 
the commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted 
for the perpetration of thousands ; we should see, as in other parts of 
Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be 
attended by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or new 
motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punish- 
ments, is the way to mend a state. Nor can I avoid even question- 
ing the validity of that right which social combinations have assumed, 
of capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder, 
their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self- 
defence, to cut off that man who has shewn a disregard for the life of 
another. Against such, all nature rises in arms; but it is not so 
against him who steals my property. Natural law gives me no right 
to take away his life, as, by that, the horse he steals is as much his 
pi0})erty as mine. If, then, I have any right, it must be from a com- 
pact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse 
shall die. But this is a false compact; because no man has a right to 



8io THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Goldsmith. 

barter his life any more than to take it away, as it is not his own. 
And besides, the compact is inadequate, and would be set aside even 
in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penaUy for a very 
trifling convenience, since it is far better that two men should live 
than that one man should ride. But a compact that is false between 
two men^ is equally so between a hundred, or a hundred thousand j 
for as ten millions of circles can never make a square, so the united 
voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It 
is thus that reason speaks 5 and untutored nature-says the same thing. 
Savages, that are directed by natural law alone, are very tender of the 
lives of each other j they seldom shed blood but to retaliate former 
cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few 
executions in times of peace ; and, in all commencing governments 
that have the print of nature still strong upon them, scarcely any 
crime is held capital. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws, 
which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Govern- 
ment, while it grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age ; 
and, as if our property were become dearer in proportion as it increased 
— as if the more enormous our wealth the more extensive our fears — 
all our possessions are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung 
round with gibbets to scare every invader. 

I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or 
the licentiousness of our people, that this country should show more 
convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps 
it is owing to both 3 for they mutually produce each other. When, 
by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds the same punishment 
aliixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in 
the penalty, the peojjle are led to lose all sense of distinction in the 
crime, and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality : thus the 
multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh 
restraints. 

It were to be wished then, that power, instead of contriving new 
laws to punish vice 5 instead of drawing hard the cords of society till 
a convulsion comes to burst them ; instead of cutting av/ay wretches as 
useless before we have tried their utility -, instead of converting correc- 
tion into vengeance, — it were to be wished that we tried the restric- 
tive arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the 
tyrant of the people. We should then find that creatures, whose 
souls are held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner : we should 
then find that creatures, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury 
should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to 



Walpole.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 8ii 

sinew the state in times of danger ; that as their faces are like ours, 
their hearts are so too j that few minds are so base as that perseverance 
cannot amend ; that a man may see his last crime without dying for 
it 3 and that very little blood will serve to cement our security. — The 
Vicar of IVakefield, chap, xxvii. 

318.— THE TRIAL OF THE SCOTTISH LORDS, 1746. 

[Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford, 1717 — 1797. 

[Horace "VValpole, born in 1717, was the youngest son of the Whig Minister, Sir 
Robert Walpole. He was educated at Eton, and King's College, Cambridge, and 
sat in Parliament for the space of twenty-eight years, but distinguished himself in the 
House on only two occasions — first, in defence of his father's administration ; and 
next, in defence of the unfortunate Admiral Byng. He retired from the political 
world in 1768, and led a life of literary ease at his villa. Strawberry Hill, at Twicken- 
ham. He wrote "A Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors," "Historic Doubts 
concerning Richard III.," "Anecdotes of Painting," "The Castle of Otranto," &c., 
&:c. But he keeps his place in the foremost rank of literature by his Letters, 
which Sir Walter Scott declared to be the best in the English language. Horace 
Walpole became Earl of Orford on the death of his nephew in 1791, and died in 1797.] 

Arlington Street, August i, 1746. 
I AM this moment come from the conclusion of the greatest and most 
melancholy scene I ever saw. You will easily guess it was the trial 
of the rebel Lords. As it was the most interesting sight, it was the 
most solemn and fine.' A coronation is a puppet-show, and all the 
splendour of it idle ; but this sight at once feasted one's eyes and 
engaged all one's passions. It began last Monday -, three parts of 
Westminster Hall were enclosed with galler'ci, and hung with scarlet j 
and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most awful solemnity 
and decency, except in the one point of leaving the prisoners at the 
bar amidst the idle curiosity of some crowd, and even with the wit- 
nesses who had sworn against them, while the Lords adjourned to their 
own house to consult. No part of the royal family was there, which 
was a proper regard to the unhappy men who were become their 
victims. One hundred and thirty-nine Lords were present, and made 
a noble sight on their benches, frequent and full ! The Chancellor 
(Hardwicke) was Lord High Steward j but, though a most comely 
personage, with a fine v^oice,his behaviour was mean, curiously searching 
for occasion to bow to the Minister (Mr. Pelham), that is no peer, and 
consequently applying to the other Ministers, in a manner, for their 
orders ; and not even ready at the ceremonial. To the prisoners he 
was peevish ; and instead of keeping up to the humane dignity of the 
law of England, whose character it is to point out favour to the 
criminal, he crossed them, and almost scolded at any ofi-'er they made 
towards d<^fenc(». I had armed myself with all the resolution I conU 



8i2 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Walpole. 

with the thought of their crimes and of the danger past, and was 
assisted by tiie sight of the Marquis of Lothian in weepers for his son, 
who fell at CuUoden — but the first appearance of the prisoners shocked 
me ! their behaviour melted me. Lord Kilmarnock and Lord Cro- 
martie are both past forty, but look younger. Lord Kilmarnock is tall 
and slender, with an extreme fine person, and his behaviour a most just 
mixture between dignity and submission ; if in anything to be repre- 
hended, a little affected, and his hair too exactly .dressed for a man in 
his situation ; but when I say this, it is not to find fault with him, but 
to show how little fault there was to be found. Lord Cromartie is an 
indifferent figure, appeared much dejected, and rather sullen: he 
dropped a few tears the first day, and swooned as soon as he got back 
to his cell. For Lord Balmerino, he is the most natural brave old 
fellow I ever saw 3 the highest intrepidity, even to indifference. At 
the bar he behaved like a soldier and a man ; in the intervals of form, 
with carelessness and humour. He pressed extremely to have his wife, 
his pretty Peggy, with him in the Tower. Lady Cromartie only sees 
her husband through the grate, not choosing to be shut up with him, 
as she thinks she can serve him better by her intercession without ; she 
is very handsome, so are their daughters. When they were to be 
brought from the Tower in separate coaches, there was some dispute 
in which the axe must go. Old Balmerino cried, " Come, come, put 
it with me." At the bar he plays with his fingers upon the axe while 
he talks to the gentleman-gaoler ; and one day, somebody coming up to 
listen, he took the blade and held it like a fan between their faces. 
During the trial, a little boy was near him, but not tall enough to see j 
he made room for the child, and placed him near himself. 

When the trial began the two earls pleaded guilty; Balmerino not 
guilty, saying he could prove his not being at the taking of the Castle 
of Carlisle, as was laid in the indictment. Then the king's counsel 
opened, and Serjeant Skinner pronounced the most absurd speech 
imaginable ; and mentioned the Duke of Perth, ** who/' said he, " I 
see by the papers is dead." Then some witnesses were examined, 
whom, afterwards, the old hero shook cordially by the hand. The 
Lords withdrew to their house, and returning, demanded of the judges 
whether, one point not being proved, though all the rest were, the 
indictment was false? to which they unanimously answered in the 
negative. Then the Lord High Steward asked the Peers severally, 
whether Lord Balmerino was guilty ? All said, " Guilty, upon honour," 
and then adjourned, the prisoner having begged pardon for giving 
them so much trouble. While the Lords were withdrawing, the 
Solicitor-General Murray (brotherof the Pretender's Minister) officiously 
and insolently went up to Lord Balmerino, and asked him how he 



Walpole.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 813 

could give the Lords so much trouble when his solicitor had informed 
him that his plea could be of no use to him ? Balmerino asked the 
bystanders who this person was ? and being told, he said, " Oh, Mr. 
Murray ! I am extremely glad to see you : I have been with several of 
your relations 3 the good lady, your mother, was of great use to us at 
Perth." Are you not charmed with this speech ? how just it was ! 
As he went away he said, *' They call me Jacobite ; I am no more a 
Jacobite than any that try me; but if the Great Mogul had set up his 
standard I should have followed it, for I could not starve." The 
worst of his case is, that afcer the battle of Dumblain, having a com- 
pany in the Duke of Argyle's regiment, he deserted with it to the 
rebels, and has since been pardoned. Lord Kilmarnock is a Presby- 
terian, with four earldoms in him, but so poor since Lord Wilmington's 
stopping a pension that my father had given him, that he often wanted 
a dinner. 

* * * * * * * 

On Wednesday they were again brought to Westminster Hall to 
receive sentence, and being asked what they had to say. Lord Kil- 
marnock, with a very fine voice, read a very fine speech, confessing 
the extent of his crime, but offering his principles as some alleviation, 
having his eldest son (his second, unluckily, was with him) in the 
Duke's ^ivraj, fighting for the liberties of his country at Culloden, where 
his unhappy father was in arms to destroy them. He insisted much on 
his tenderness to the English prisoners, which some deny, and say that 
he was the man who proposed their being put to death, when General 
Stapleton urged that he was come to fight, and not to butcher j and 
that if they acted any such barbarity, he would leave them with all 
his men. He very artfully mentioned Van Hoey's letter, and said how 
much he should scorn to owe his life to such intercession. Lord Cro- 
martie spoke much shorter, and so low that he was not heard but by 
those who sat very near him ; but they prefer his speech to the other. 
He mentioned his misfortune in having drawn in his eldest son, who 
is prisoner with him ; and concluded with saying, " If no part of this 
bitter cup must pass from me, not mine, O God, but Thy will be 
done." If he had pleaded not guilty, there was ready to be produced 
against him a paper signed with his own hand, for putting the English 
prisoners to death. 

Lord Leicester went up to the Duke of Newcastle, and said, " I 
never heard so great an orator as Lord Kilmarnock ; if I was your Grace 
I would pardon him, and make him paymaster.'''^ — Letters, vol. ii. 



* Alluding to Mr. Pitt, who had lately been preferred to that post, from the fear the 
Ministry had of his abusive eloquence. 



814 THE EJ^RY-DAY BOOK [Moore. 

319.— A CHAT WITH FREDERICK THE GREAT. 

[John Moore, M.D., 1729 — 1802. 

[John Moore was born at Stirling, 1729, and received his education at Glasgow, where 
he studied medicine. In 1747 he became assistant-surgeon to the army in Flanders, 
where he remained till the peace. In 1773 he accepted an invitation to travel with 
the young Duke of Hamilton. The fruits of his residence on the Continent were 
" A View of Society and Manners in France, Switzerland, and Germany," and " A 
View of Society and Manners in Italy." But Dr. Moore is best known by his cele- 
brated novel, "Zeluco." In 1792 he accompanied Lord Lauderdale to Paris, and wit- 
nessed the principal scenes of the French Revolution, of which he published an 
account in 1795. He wrote two more novels, " Edward," and " Mordaunt," but 
neither were thought equal to " Zeluco." Dr. Moore died at Richmond in 1802.] 

The more I see and hear of this extraordinary man, the more I am 
astonished. He reconciles quahties which I used to think incompatible. 
I once was of opinion that the mind which stoops to very small objects, is 
incapable of embracing great ones. I am now convinced that he is an 
exception ; for while fev/ objects are too great for his genius, none seem 
too small for his attention. I once thought that a man of much vivacity 
was not capable of entering into the detail of business ; I now see that 
he who is certainly a man of wit, can continue methodically the neces- 
sary routine of business, with the patience and perseverance of the 
greatest dunce that ever drudged in a counting-house. 

We have lately seen the Italians perform ; but neither plays, nor the 
operas, nor any part of the entertainments, interest me half so much, 
or could draw me so assiduously to Sans-Souci, as the opportunity this 
attendance gives of seeing the king. Other monarchs acquire impor- 
tance from their station : this prince gives importance to his. The 
traveller in other kingdoms has a wish to see the king, because he 
admires the kingdom. Here the object of curiosity is reversed ; and 
let us suppose the palaces, and the towns, and the country, and the 
army of Prussia ever so fine, yet our chief interest in them will arise 
from their belonging to Frederick H. j the man who, without any 
ally but Britain, repelled the united force of Austria, France, Russia, 
and Sweden. Count Nesselrode, talking with me on this subject, had 
an expression equally lively and just. " C'est dans Tadversite qu'il 
hrille, lorsqti'il est bien comprime il a un ressort irresistible." [" It is in 
adversity that he shines 3 when he is well compressed he has a won- 
derful spring." Alluding to a watch or other mechanical spring.] 

One evening, before the play began, his Grace (the Duke of Hamilton) 
and I were standing accidentally with Count Finkenstein, in a room 
adjoining to the great apartment where the company were. The king 
entered alone, when he was not expected, and immediately began a 



Keightley.J OF MODERN LITERATURE. 815 

conversation with the duke. He asked several questions relating to 
the British constitution ; particularly at what age a peer could take his 
seat in Parliament. When the duke replied, " At twenty-one." " It 
is evident then," said the king, ^^that the English patricians acquire 
the necessary talents for legislation much sooner than those of ancient 
Rome, who were not admitted into the senate till the age of forty." 

He then inquired into the state of Lord Chatham's health, and ex- 
pressed high esteem for the character of that minister. He asked me 
if I had received letters by the last post, and if they mentioned any- 
thing of the affairs in America ? He said there were accounts that the 
English troops had been driven from Boston, and that the Americans 
were in possession of the place. I told him our letters informed 
us that the army had left Boston to make an attack with more effect 
elsewhere. He smiled, and said, " If you will not allow the retreat to 
have been an affair of necessity, you will at least admit that it was 
tout-d-fait a propos.'" 

He said he heard that some British ofHcers had gone into the 
American service, and mentioned Colonel Lee, whom he had seen at 
his court. He observed, '' that it was a difficult thing to govern men 
by force at such a distance; that if the Americans should be beat 
(which appeared a little problematical), still it would be next to impos- 
sible to continue to draw from them a revenue by taxation ; that if we 
intended conciliation with America, some of our measures were too 
rough ; and if we intended its subjection, they were too gentle." He 
concluded, by saying, " Entin, messieurs, je ne comprends pas ces 
choses-la ; je n'ai point de colonic. J'espere que vous vous tirerez 
bien d'affaire, mais elle me parait un peu epineuse." [In short, mes- 
sieurs, I do not understand these matters : I have no colonies. I hope 
you will extricate yourselves well from your difficulties, but they appear 
formidable.] Having said this, he walked into the princess's apart- 
ment, to lead her to the playhouse, while we joined the company 
already assembled there. The tragedy of " Mahomet " was performed, 
which, in my opinion, is the finest of all Voltaire's dramatic pieces, 
and that in which Le Kain appears to the greatest advantage. — A View 
of Socittij and Manners in France, Switzerland, and Germany^ 



320.— ELVES. 

[Thomas Keightley, 1789. 

[Thomas Kktghtley was born in Dublin, 1789, and was entered at Trinity 
CoUe^^e, Dublin, at the age of thirteen. He was intended for the bar, but 
delicacy of constitution prevented him from practising as a lawyer. He came to 
England in 1824, and his first effort in literature was assisting T. Crofton Croker in 



8i6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Keightley. 

the " Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland.'* He next wrote for the reviews, 
especially for the " Foreign Quarterly." He published School Histories of Rome, 
Greece, and England, " Fairy Mythology," "The Mythology of Greece and Italy," 
"Virgil's Bucolics and Georgics," with notes (1846), " History of India" (1847), 
"Satires and Epistles of Horace" (1847), "Fasti of Ovid," " Sallust," " Life of 
Milton," and "The Manse of Maitland," translated from the Dutch (i860).] 

The Alfar still live in the memory of the traditions of the peasantry 
of Scandinavia. They also to a certain extent retain their distinction 
into White and Black. The former, or the Good Elves, dwell in the 
air, dance on the grass, or sit in the leaves of trees ; the latter, or Evil 
Elves, are regarded as an underground people, who frequently inflict 
sickness or injury on mankind ; for which there is a particular kind of 
doctors called Kloka,* to be met in all parts of the country. 

The Elves are believed to have their kings, to celebrate their 
weddings and banquets just the same as the dwellers above ground. 
There is an interesting intermediate class of them in popular tradition 
called the Hill-people (Hogfolk), who are believed to dwell in caves 
and small hills : when they show themselves they have a handsome 
human form. The common people seem to connect with them a 
deep feeling of melancholy, as if bewailing a half-quenched hope of 
redemption. t 

There are only a very few old persons now who can tell anything 
more about them than of the sweet singing that may occasionally on 
summer nights be heard out of their hills, when one stands still and 
listens, or, as it is expressed in the ballads. Jays his ear to the Elve-hilL 
(lagger sitt ora till Elfvehogg) : but no one must be so cruel as, by 
the slightest word, to destroy their hopes of salvation, for then the 
sprightly music will be turned into weeping and lamentation. 

The Norwegians call the Elves Huldrafolk, and their music Hul- 
draslaat : it is in the minor key, and of a dull and mournful sound. 
The mountaineers sometimes play it, and pretend they have learned 
it by listening to the underground people among the hills and rocks. 
There is also a tune called the Ell-king's tune, which several of the 
good fiddlers know right well, but never venture to play, for as soon 
as it begins, both old and young, and even inanimate objects, are im- 



* That is, Wise people or Conjurors. They answer to the Fairy-women of 
/reland. 

t Afzclius is of opinion that this notion respecting the Hill-people is derived from 
the time of the introduction of Christianity into the north, and expresses the sympathy 
of the first converts with their forefatliers, who had died without a knowledge of the 
Kcdccmer, and lay buried in heathen earth, and whose unhap})y spirits were doomed 
to wander about these lower regions, or sigh within their mounds till the great day of 
redemption. 



OF MODERy LTTERATUEE. Srf 



me 



7 r :: r : irziTPTind EItcs, who are beliered to dwell under the 
: : :r: I 1. : : ' r dcscribed 33 sportire and mischievous, and as 

:r. : ;:: i : r .: :: .li of men. Thej are said to love cleanliness 
aooui the hoose and place^ and to reward such servants as are neat and 
cle::"!v. 

7- T T was, one time, it is said, a servant girl, who was for her 

c T - :: i^ habits, greatly beloved by the Elves, particularly as she 

V r :.:rr .: :: carry a^ray all dirt and foul water to a distance from 

: 7 T - rh?T once invited her to a wedding. Everything was 

i T ^reatesr^order, and they made her a present of some 

: £ rood-humouredly and put into her pocket. But 

■ 7 . .7 : 7-: IS coming there was a straw unluckily lying in 

: 7 : 7 17 _ ~: rot cleverly over it, but the poor bride fell 

.7 :7, ---: -3 ^„: cf this the girl could not restrain herselij 

: .: : \-: iiiii a Laughing, and that instant the whole vanished from 

i.r: - ^-:- Next day, to her utter amazement, she found that what 

she had taken to be nothing but chips, were so many pieces of pure 

"-maid at a place called Skibshuset (the Shiphouse), in 

L vas not so fortunate. A colony of Elves had taken up their 

7 -iider the floor of the cowhouse, or, it is more likely, were 

: 77 7: !-e it was made a cowhouse. However, the dirt and iilth 

: •: -7 : :7e made annoyed them beyond measure, and they gave 

:. f A : -:. : -i '? Tindostand that if she did not remove the cows, she 

' 7 7 n to repent it. She gave httle heed to their re- 

: f 7 : I : : - ' : was not very long till they set the maid up on 

: 7 : : ..-7 ..:-:. : ;r.i killed all the cows. It is said that they were 

77 7 ^ 7 _ .: r 7 ::::oving in a great hurry from the cowhouse 

-7 / :_ :h2t they went In httle coaches J and their 

_ : 7 r :h wasfer more stately and magnificent 

-1- -7 7 :. 7 7 7 r!nce lived in the meadow.:^ 

The Eives if 7 77 7 ;. :: 7v. ;:ag in the meadows, where 
they form th: 7 7 _ .vlJch from them are called 

Eltclans (Elf-7 .e see in the morning 

stripes along .7 7 _ _ r .1 meadows, they say the 



^ Arndt, Base dorch Scfawedea. "f STenska Foik-Visor, toL iii. p. 159. 

Z Thide, ipo\. hr. p. 22. They are caDed Trokis in the originaL As they had a 
tdx^ we think they must have been Elves. The Dwaife have kM)g since abf^ished 
mooarchj. 

3 G 



8i8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Wither. 

Elves have been dancing there. If any one should at midnight get 
within their circle, they become visible to him, and they may then 
illude him. It is not every one that can see the Elves , and one 
person may see them dancing while another perceives nothing. 
Sunday- children^ as they are called, i.e., those born on Sunday, are 
remarkable for possessing this property of seeing Elves and similar 
beings. The Elves, hov/ever, have the power to bestow this gift on 
whomsoever they please. They also used to speak of Elf-books which 
they gave to those whom they loved, and .which enabled them to 
foretel future events. 

The Elves often sit in little stones that are of a circular form, and 
are called Elf-mills (Elf-quarnor) ; the sound of their voice is said to 
be sweet and soft like the air.* — Fairy Mythology, vol. i.p. 137. 



321.— SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! 

[George Wither, 1588 — 1667. 

[George Wither's career was a chequered one. He was born in troublous times, 
and endured, in common with other noble minds, all the vicissitudes of a period in 
which so many suffered for conscience sake. Wither was born in Hampshire, 1588, 
and was educated at Magdalen College, Oxford. His first work (1613) was a satire, 
entitled " Abuses Stript and Whipt," for which he was thrown into the Marshalsea 
prison; here he composed his fine poem, "The Shepherd's Hunting." At the 
break-out of the Civil War, Wither espoused the popular side, and sold his paternal 
estate to raise a troop of horse for the Parliament. He rose to the rank of major. 
During the struggles of the period he was made prisoner of war by the royalists ; 
but at the intercession of a brother bard, Denham, was suffered to escape, and became 
one of Cromwell's major-generals. From the sequestered estates of the gentlemen 
of Surrey Wither obtained a considerable fortune, of which he was stript at the 
Restoration. He remonstrated, wrote satires which were voted libels, and was again 
imprisoned, being released under a bond for good behaviour in 1663; he died in 
London, 1667, four years afterwards. Wither's most forcible productions were 
written before the sectarian gloom of puritanism tinctured his writings, but many of 
his religious poems are very tender and graceful. Like Raleigh, some of his best 
pieces were written in prison.] 

Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear. 

What ails my darling thus to cry ? 
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear. 

To hear me sing thy lullaby. 
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep j 
Be still, my dear j sweet baby, sleep. 

* The greater part of what precedes has been taken from Afzelius in the Svenska 
Visor, vol. iii. 



Wither.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 819 

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? 

What thing to thee can mischief do ? 
Thy God is now thy father dear. 

His holy Spouse thy mother too. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weepj 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Though thy conception was in sin, 

A sacred bathing thou hast had -, 
And though thy birth unclean hath been, 

A blameless babe thou now art made. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep 3 
Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

While thus thy lullaby I sing. 

For thee great blessings ripening be ; 

Thine Eldest Brother is a king. 

And hath a kingdom bought for thee. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear 3 

For whosoever thee otfends 
By thy protector threaten'd are. 

And God and angels are thy friends. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

When God with us was dwelling here. 

In little babes He took delight 3 
Such innocents as thou, my dear. 

Are ever precious in his sight. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep 3 
Be still, my babe 3 sweet baby, sleep. 

A little infant once was He 3 

And strength in weakness then was laid 

Upon His virgin mother's knee. 

That power to thee might be convey'd. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep 3 

Be still, my babe 3 sweet baby, sleep. 

In this thy frailty and thy need 

He friends and helpers doth prepare. 

Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed. 
For of thy weal they tender are. 
3 G 2 



820 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Evans. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep j 
Be still, my babe 3 sweet baby, sleep. 
The King of kings, when he was born. 

Had not so much for outward ease j 
By Him such dressings were not worn. 

Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep j 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, 

Where oxen lay, and asses fed : 
Warm rooms we do to thee afford. 

An easy cradle or a bed. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe -, sweet baby, sleep. 

The wants that He did then sustain 

Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; 

And by His torments and His pain 
Thy rest and ease secured be. 

My baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe 3 sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this, 

A promise and an earnest got 
Of gaining everlasting bliss. 

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe 3 sweet baby, sleep. 

— Poems. 

322.— BEFORE THE FLOOD. 

[The Ven. Archdeacon Evans, 1790 — 1864. 
[Robert Wilson Evans was born about the year 1790, and was educated at Trinity 
College, Cambridge, where he graduated B.A. in high honours in 1811. He was 
for some years Fellow and Tutor of his college; and in 1842 was appointed Vicar 
of Heversham, "Westmorland, and in 1858 Archdeacon of Westmorland. His 
works are the "Rectory of Valehead," "Scripture Biography," " Ministry of the 
Body," "Tales of the Ancient British Churches," "The Bishopric of Souls," &c. &c. 
He died in 1864.] 

The sin of Adam had been transmitted down, and reached the ninth 
generation of his descendants, when it came to such a head, that God 
determined to punish mankind with a signal judgment. We cannot 
wonder at so deep and universal corruption, when we consider how 
many causes led to it. The prodigious length of man's life allowed a 
rapid progress in all the means of making life agreeable. Nothing 



Evans.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 821 

was lost by remaining imperfect and undivulged at the death of the 
inventor. A single life sufficed to mature in one brain^ and carry into 
practical effect, what now requires many successions of men, each of 
which painfully recovers the clue of its predecessor. Thus luxury 
would advance with gigantic strides 5 but this enormous length of life, 
keeping death and judgment at such a distance, would inspire a reck- 
lessness of enjoyment of the present hour, of which we may somewhat 
judge from the conduct of ourselves, whose days are reduced to three- 
score years and ten. Again, it kept bad examples so long upon earth 
as to diffuse both far among contemporaries, and deep into rising 
generations, their pernicious influence. A man from his prime to his 
end had the opportunity of corrupting eight successive generations.* 
When we consider how infinitely more powerful, as well as more 
common, evil example is than good, we cannot be surprised at the 
melancholy result which came forth at the end of about 1500 years 
after the murder of Abel. Bad as times have since been, they have 
never reached that deep and universal depravity to which the world 
then attained. And, thanked be God, it never can so attain again, 
from causes too obvious to enumerate. God however for a long time 
had a remnant reserved to him. The children of Seth long merited 
the title of sons of God, and kept aloof from the contagion of the 
example of the sons of Cain. But even they at last relaxed their 
strictness, and smitten with the fairness of the daughters of Cain, 
forgot the cause of the honour and glory of God in the unruliness of 
their desires. They may possibly have been willing dupes to a notion 
of drawing over the Cainites by means of their wives and connexions 
to the cause of godliness, and thus have flattered themselves that their 
own gratification was God's cause. Alas, it was not the last time that 
the Tempter has thus deluded and made sport of godly men. The 
leaven once admitted into the mass of the children of Seth soon 
leavened the whole. The children of godly men are notorious for 
going beyond all others in profligacy, if they once begin, and for 
obvious reasons. Accordingly, the generation sprung from this fatal 
connexion was distinguished by deeds of violence, by corruption of 
imagination, by cruelty, rapine, and wickedness, to that degree, 
that it repented the Lord that he had made men on the earth : all the 
earth was corrupt before God. The giants, or mighty men of oppres- 
sion, already existing of the race of Cain, were soon matched by a 
similar brood of monsters of the blood of Seth, and the earth was 
filled with violence. In the end so universal became the apostacy, 
that one family only out of the thousands of earth continued faithful 



* The average of life being about 900, and of a generation 100. 



822 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Evans. 

to the Lord. In the household of Noah the son of Lamech, and tenth 
in descent from Adam, the lamp of the light of the Holy Spirit shone 
as light in a window on a dark night amidst a wide and waste moor. 
There alone was kept holy the Sabbath of God, thence alone arose 
the sweet smell of accepted sacrifice, there alone was cherished the 
lively hope of the promised Redeemer, and there alone was God's holy 
name reserved for prayer and blessing. Elsewhere it was wantonly 
uttered in profane swearing, cursings and blasphemy. As far as the 
life-giving Spirit was concerned, the world was brought back to the 
early days of Adam, when himself with Eve and two sons were the 
only living spirits upon earth. In such a state of things God revealed 
himself to Noah, communicated to him his resolution of destroying 
mankind with the earth, and commanded him to build an ark, giving 
him notice of the very materials, shape, and dimensions, and telling 
him that it was by a flood of waters that he intended to destroy all 
flesh. Meanwhile, in his long-suffering he commissioned him to 
preach righteousness to mankind, if perchance any would repent and 
turn unto the Lord.* Noah immediately proceeded to obey God's 
command ; for i 20 years, the length of a whole generation, he con- 
tinued building and preaching, The Spirit of Christ was upon him. 
He bade men forsake their ways, and turn to the hope of their pro- 
mised Redeemer. He warned them against the security of long life, 
for that God was already laying the axe to the root. He told them 
his commission, and pointed to his ark, which was daily rising, plank 
above plank, for proof of the sincerity of his conviction. There was 
no salvation, he told them, unless they returned to the faith whence 
they had fallen away, and looked up to Him to whom Adam had 
looked for the remission of his sins. Great must have been his sorrow 
for man, and great his zeal for God's daily insulted honour. How 
great therefore the earnestness of his preaching ! He must have had 
friends whom he wished to rescue from impending perdition, and 
whom he besought with tears and prayers to give heed to him, and they 
would not. Some answered with coldness, some rebuked him for 
impertinence, some treated him with scoffs and insults, and called him 
a driveller or a madman. From the old and elderly, whose hearts 
were less accessible, he turned with better hopes to the young. But 
here also he met with rebuffs. Youth must then have been even 
more presumptuous than now: it had before it the long prospect of 800 
or 900 years 3 they laughed no doubt at the crazy ark-builder, as they 

* 1 Pet. iii. 20; 2 Pet. ii. 5 : in the former passage, for the words in our version, 
"which were sometime disobedient," the Greek requires that we should read, "when 
they were of old time disobedient." The difference is very important in a theological 



Evans.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 823 

called him^ and asked him in derision every day^, \'^ hen the A^'orld was 
to end, and thanked him, each morning, in mockery, for the respite 
of another day, 

INIeanwhile his ark began to tower over the whole neighbourhood, 
provoking the jeers of the beholders. The allotted time for repen- 
tance was now fast running out 3 and perhaps a few did begin to think 
that there was something serious in the matter. Noah, on all occa- 
sions, they observed, conducted himself with exceeding wisdom and 
judgment, and if his was a tit of madness, it was a veiy long one to 
persist in. Some converts probably he made, whom death spared 
from beholding the dreadful sight of perishing parents, and brotliers, 
and friends. But these could have beei] but few, since we find tliat 
at the very last he had not gained over even his own sen^ants. How 
melancholy now was the sight when he passed from his own door, and 
came amongst crowds who he knew would shortly be swept away in 
awful destruction : when he entered tlie thronged and noisy city, and 
knew tliat very soon would be the noise of overwhelming waters there, 
and then solitude and silence. Day after day the godly man, vexed in 
his righteous soul, returned weary and faint with useless, thankless toil, 
to his spiritual solitude. In vain he endeavoured to extend the vine- 
yard of God's church beyond his own door: the wild boar immediately 
assailed the advanced enclosure, and before evening it was rooted 
up. How continual must have been his struggle ! In the morning 
he poured out his soul to God, and implored the blessing of some 
fruit upon the labours of the ministry of the day, and in the evening, 
mourned before him the impenitence of his brethren, and cried, "Lord, 
who hath believed our report?" At night, his wakeful soul revolved 
upon the ways and means of the moiTow, how and where to find the 
passage to the heart of tliis and of that friend ; and then, when on the 
ensuing day he thought he had struck tlie true chord, and blessed God 
for it, before night it ceased to return a sound : or one whom he had 
left half convinced, or at least, thinking seriously of what had been 
said early in tlie morning, was found to have relapsed into all his care- 
lessness and unbelief when he saw him again at night. There is a 
certain stage of infatuation of sin in which all warning is thrown away, 
a judicial blindness, when they that have eyes will not see, and they 
that have ears will not hear. Yet what preaching could be more 
powerful than that of Noah ? He preached by God's especial ap* 
pointment, under the immediate inspiration of the Spirit of Christ, 
with a conviction of approaching judgment, with a wonderful and con- 
spicuous sign of that conviction, to brediren and friends, for whom he 
would gladly lay down his life. But no human voice can awaken the 
dead. In times of general apostacy, the mind is so depraved, so pos- 



824 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Villemain. 

sessed of the notion of its own high powers, so bent upon self-gratifi- 
cation, that it recoils from every appeal made by the meekness and 
single-mindedness of wisdom and grace. As soon as it catches words 
hostile to its misnamed peace, it either springs, like the enraged tiger, 
to destroy its disturber, or draws in its head, and shuts itself up, like 
the tortoise in his shell. Accordingly, they went on building, and 
marrying, and being married, before the eyes of Noah, up to the mo- 
ment that he entered into the ark. Those whom God was sparing the 
sight of the lamentable catastrophe, he was now gradually removing 
from earth. Lamech was taken away five years before it happened j 
and at last died Methuselah, in the very year of the flood. — Scripture 
Biography. Life of Noah. 



323.— THE DAWN OF MODERN ENGLISH POETRY. 

[Abel FRAN901S Villemain, 1791 — 1867. 

[Abel FRAN901S Villemain was born at Paris, 1791. He distinguished himself early 
as a scholar, having gained the appointment of Professor of Rhetoric at the College 
Charlemagne, at the age of nineteen. In 181 6 he became Assistant Professor of 
Modern Historj- in the University of Paris. In 1832 he was created a Peer of 
France, and was Minister of Public Instruction in the Guizot Ministry. In 1834 
he was nominated perpetual Secretary of the Academy. After the Revolution of 
1848, he retired from public life. M. Villemain's principal works are "Vie de 
Cromwell," "Cours de Litterature Fran9aise," and " Discours et Melanges 
Historiques." He also edited the " Provincial Letters" of Pascal, and translated the 
"School for Scandal" into French. He died in 1867.] 

It was especially after the reign of Henry VIII., and the revolution 
in religion, when a powerful excitement had been given to the minds of 
men, that their imaginations became heated, and that controversy which 
had spread through the nation gave rise to a longing for new ideas. The 
B ible alone, rendered popular by the version of theyet inactive but already 
zealous puritans — the Bible alone was a school of poetry full of emotions 
and images ; it almost effaced indeed, in the memory of the people, the 
legends and the ballads of the middle ages. The psalms of David, 
translated into rude verse, but full of fire and spirit, formed the war- 
songs of the Reformation, and gave to poetry, which had hitherto 
been considered only as an inferior pastime for the leisure of the 
castle and the court, somewhat of an enthusiastic and serious tone. 

At the same time, the study of the ancient languages opened an 
abundant source of recollections and of images, which assumed a sort 
of originality in being partially disfigured by the somewhat confused 
notions which the multitude entertained of them. Under Ehzabeth, 
Greek and Roman erudition was the fashion of the court. All the 
classic authors were translated. The queen herself had put into verse 



Villemain.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 825 

the Hercules Furens of Seneca 3 and this version, though little remark- 
able in itself, suffices to explain the literary zeal of the nobles of her 
court. They became learned in order to please the queen, as, at another 
time, they became philosophers or devotees. 

This erudition of the wits of the court was assuredly not partaken 
of by the people ; but it showed itself in some degree at the festivals 
and public games. It was a perpetual mythology. When the queen 
visited any nobleman of her court, she was received and saluted by the 
Penates or Household Gods, and Mercury conducted her into the 
chamber of honour. All the metamorphoses of Ovid figured in the 
pastry of the dessert. At the evening walk the lake of the castle was 
covered with Tritons and Nereids, and the pages were disguised as 
Nymphs. When the queen hunted in the park at break of day, she 
was encountered by Diana, who saluted her as the model of virgin 
purity. Did she make her solemn entry into the city of Norwich, 
Love, appearing in the midst of the grave aldermen, came to present 
her with a golden arrow, which, under the influence of her powerful 
charms, could not fail to pierce the most insensible heart 5 a present, 
says an ancient chronicle,* which her majesty, who had then reached 
her fortieth year, received with the most gracious acknowledgment. 

These inventions of the courtiers, this official mythology of 
chamberlains and ministers, which formed at once a welcome flattery 
for the queen, and an amusing spectacle for the people, diffiised a 
taste for the ingenious fictions of antiquity, and rendered them almost 
familiar to the most ignorant, as we see them even in the very pieces 
where Shakspeare seems most to have written for the people and for 
his contemporaries. 

Other sources of imagination were open, other materials of poetry 
were prepared in the remains of popular traditions and local super- 
stitions, which were preserved throughout all England. At the court, 
astrology ; in the villages, sorcerers, fairies, and genii, formed a creed 
at once lively and all-powerful. The imagination of the English, ever 
prone to melancholy, retained these fables of the North as a national 
belief. At the same time there were mingled with it, as attractions 
for more cultivated minds, the chivalrous fictions of Southern Europe, 
and all those wonderful relations of the Italian Muses, which a multi- 
tude of translations had introduced into the English language. Thus, 
on all sides, and in every sense, by the mixture of ancient and foreign 
ideas, by a credulous adhesion to native traditions, by learning and by 
ignorance, by religious reform and by popular superstitions, were laid 
open a thousand perspectives for the imagination 3 and, without 



Holinshed. 



826 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Bremer. 

searching farther into the opinion of those writers who have called 
this epoch the golden age of Enghsh poetry, it may be asserted that 
England, emerging from barbarism, agitated in her opinions without 
being disturbed by war, full of imagination and traditional lore, was 
then the best prepared field for the production of a great poet. 

It was from the bosom of these early treasures of national literature 
that Shakspeare, animated by a wonderful genius^ promptly formed 
his expressions and his stjde. It was the first merit that displayed 
itself in him, the character which first struck his contemporaries ; we 
see it acknowledged in the surname of the Poet honey-tor: gued, which 
was given to him, and which we find in the rising literature of all 
nations, as the natural homage paid to those who first caused the 
charm of speech, and the harmony of language, to be more forcibly 
felt and understood. 

This genius or talent of expression, which now forms the great 
character and the lasting existence of Shakspeare, was undoubtedly 
that which first struck his own age. Like our Corneille, he created 
eloquence, and became powerful through its means. — Nouveaux 
Melanges Historiques et Litteraires, tome i. 



324.— THE SWEDISH HOME. 

[Frederika Bremer, 1S02 — 1S65. 

[Frederika Bremer was born in 1802, on the banks of the Aura, near Abo, in 
Finland. Her father was a wealthy merchant. When, in 1805, Finland was ceded 
to Russia, he sold his property in that countrv^ and purchased an estate in Sweden, 
whither he removed with his family, wintering, however, in Stockholm. In 1842 her 
novel " The Neighbours" \vas published in England, and became very popular from its 
originality. It was translated by Marj^ Howitt, who, encouraged by its reception, 

translated also "The Home," "The Diary," " The H Family," "The President's 

Daughters," Szc. &:c. Miss Bremer visited America, England, Italy, Turkey, Greece, 
and the Holy Land, and wrote her impressions of all these countries ; these works, 
" Homes of the New World," " Two Years in Switzerland and Italy," were also 
translated by her original translator. Miss Bremer died in 1865.] 

The North is cold and serious. The arts have not there their home, 
the time of flowers is short. Would you see their country — visit Italy, 
visit France j would you see the holy land of families, of homes — go 
to Sweden ! Behold ever)^where, between mountains and hills, those 
quiet dwellings, where man enjoys an ennobled life with Nature ; 
where, in the bosom of sacred and beautiful relations, the national 
virtues of Sweden expand and flourish — courage and the fear ot God. 
And now, since we are on so good a road, let us look in on Adelaide's 



Bremer.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 827 

home. I have called it the blissful home, and desire earnestly that yoa 
too, my reader, should call it so. Let me see whether I cannot, by the 
aid of my cousin Beata Everyday' s pen (which she left me in her last 
will), bring this testmony also from your lips. 

A clear November morning dawned upon M, On the evening of 
the day before. Count Alaric had led his beautiful young wife into 
his ancestral home. As we intend to go into the house, and commit 
some indiscretions there, let us look round a little in the young 
Countess's ante-room. No dust on the green carpet ; no spot on the 
clear windows and mirrors. The air is perfumed with mignonette. 
The breakfast-table, covered with a snow-white table-cloth, stands, 
with its steaming morning beverage, near the sofa. A few beautiful 
pictures, by Sweden's best artists, ornament the walls. But where, 
then, are the young people ? Ah ! there at the window, stand Alaric 
and Adelaide, his arm round her waist, her beautiful head resting on 
his shoulder. 

The first snow had fallen during the night, and the lake was spread 
out like a great white sheet before the stately castle. The tall forest 
of pine-trees, stretched far around, raising to the clouds their snow- 
white summits ; and on the other side of the lake, a chain of mountains 
of extraordinary wildness, was seen. At a distance, in the forest, the 
bold and powerful strokes of the woodman's axe were heard at intervals. 
A large snow-flake fell now and then through the still air 3 the sky 
was clearing up, and the clouds acquiring a deeper purple and gold, 
until they grew pale all at once before the radiant glance shed upon 
them by the king of day, while he rose clearly and gloriously from the 
white bed of the mountains ; the earth and the trees were now quickly 
adorned with diamonds, glittering like a thousand stars, but it was not 
in rivalry, but in worship and thanksgiving. 

And the glorious spectacle was seen by two happy beings. Alaric's 

eagle glance turned towards the sun, and bore unflinching his radiant 

beams. Adelaide bowed her head gladly and devoutly before this 

giver of joy, as if to greet him, and sang from Tegner's " Song to 

the Sun." 

****** -x- 

Here Adelaide suddenly stopped, and clasping her hands enthusias- 
tically, exclaimed — 

" Ah, in spring ! how beautiful must it be here then ! when the lake 
is free, and the sun calls out flower after flower 5 and all this I shall 
see, [ shall enjoy with thee ! O, Alaric, how beautiful is life ! How 
sweet it is to live !" 

*' To live !" repeated Alaric, thoughtfully. " And what is it to live ?" 
he asked, looking at Adelaide with a smile. 



828 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bremer. 

'' To love/' answered Adelaide, with warmth, " and to worship Him 
who has given us love. O how much less should we enjoy the goods 
of life, if we had not an All-bounteous Giver to thank for them ! I 
love thee, Alaric, I thank God, and this is to me one, and this is my 
felicity." 

" And I will give thanks for thee, my Adelaide, who art my life's 
best treasure," said Alaric, while he pressed her tenderly to his heart, 
and looked up thankfully to heaven. ^''But mere emotions are not 
enough for life, we must " 

" I know, I know," said Adelaide, interrupting him with a kiss and 
a roguish smile ; " we must think, study, make ourselves useful to 
others, read history, and all that. No ! do not be solemn ! Do not 
you see that all wisdom comes from the warmth of the heart ? When 
the sun shines brightly upon the earth, then does she bear her fruits. 
I love you -, what are life's interests to you must be so to me. Thy 
country shall be my country, and thy friends my friends." 

She said this with great seriousness. 

'' But tell me," she went on, and her face expressed at once a desire 
for information, and a little love of mischief, '' are men in our time really 
happier, with all their learning, than the patriarchs, for example, were 
in their times? Are the Swedes really better and happier at present, 
than were our ignorant ancestors many centuries ago ?" 

"The greater number of men are better and happier," answered 
Count Alaric. " Science and art have, by their progress, given man- 
kind instruments for their various powers, rich resources for enjoyment, 
and against suffering. But the right measure by which to estimate 
the real progress of mankind is, to cast a glance into the domestic life 
of former t'mes, and compare it with our own. Through the know- 
ledge of domestic life the root of civil life, we shall first be able to 
discern what man has really gained in elevation and felicity. I believe, 
my Adelaide, after a nearer examination, you would not willingly 
exchange the present for the past — your house for a tent in the groves of 
Mamre, even if it were shaded by palm-trees ; nor even for a knightly 
castle, although you might there watch the banner of your Viking 
as he was going forth on his freebooting expeditions, and this even 
though you might not be obliged to study at all either in the patriarchal 
or the chivalrous times, and could call your husband, lord." 

"My lord and master!" said Adelaide, bowing before Alaric with 
an enchanting expression of graceful humility, " then, as now, would 
there be to me one happiness and one honour. But tell me, best 
Alaric, how comes it then, that in these oar times there is not more 
universal happiness ? Are there not even now many unhappy and 
divided families?" 



Smith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 829 

" There are such," answered Alaric, " but then it is their own fault : 
all the elements of happiness and improvement are in life 3 men are 
only required to stretch out their hands and take them. Much evil 
and much misery, it is true, exist in our times -, but it is a time of 
struggle and progress, a great period of transition, and the shout of 
victory drowns that of wailing. We will read history together in the 
winter evenings, and you will there see a glorious revelation — the 
unfolding of God in humanity. You will see how he gives himself to 
our race in continually brighter splendour, in continually deeper in- 
tuitions, in proportion as we are able to perceive them. You shall see 
how humanity, approaching nearer to the life of the Eternal, is con- 
tinually forming itself more freely and harmoniously 5 always looking 
up to heaven more clearly — how its intelligent, its divine form becomes 
illuminated gradually by the contemplation of the All- Good 3 thou 
shalt see this, and thou shalt rejoice ; thou shalt feel thyself happy, that 
even thou art called to spread God's kingdom upon earth. And thou 
shalt find, my Adelaide, that the joy of life can best be promoted by 
its seriousness ; yes ! they cannot exist without each other." 

Adelaide looked up joyfully, and full of anticipation, to her husband. 
"I believe I understand you," said she. *' And when all who are 
married shall keep the vows made before God as we shall do — when 
at last the whole human race shall form but a single family — then 
will come the time of union between God and his earth, and then 
will the happy bride exclaim, as I do^ ' O how good is God ! Praised 
be God !' " 

" O how good is God ! Praised be God !" was echoed by Alaric 
with ardour, while he pressed his wife to his heart. 

And thus they both stood, good and happy, united in earthly and 
heavenly love, man and wife. — The Presidenfs Daughters, 



325.— A NOBLE ROMAN. 

[GoLDwiN Smith, 1823. 

[GoLDWiN Smith, Professor of Modern History in the University of Oxford, was 
born at Reading, 1823. His father was a physician. He was educated at Eton, 
and entered at Christ Church, Oxford, but was shortly after elected to a Demyship 
at Magdalen College, Oxford. He took his B.A. degree in 1845, having obtained 
the Ireland and Hertford Scholarship, and the Chancellor's prize for Latin verse. 
He was next elected Fellow of University College, of which he afterwards became 
Tutor. He was called to the Bar, at Lincoln's Inn, in 1847, t)ut did not practise. 
He was assistant secretary to the first Oxford Commission, and secretary to the 
second. He was also a member of the Education Commission of 1859. His pub- 
lished works comprise " Lectures on Historical Subjects," &c. &c. He was one of 



830 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Smith. 

the contributors to " Anthologia Oxoniensis." He is also a journalist, and a con- 
tributor to some of our first-class magazines.] 

Marcus Cato was the one man whom, living and dead, Caesar 
evidently dreaded. The Dictator even assailed his memory in a brace 
of pamphlets entitled " Anti-Cato," of the quality of which we have one 
or two specimens in Plutarch, from which we should infer that they 
were scurrilous and slanderous to the last degree 3 a proof even that 
Caesar could feel fear, and that in Caesar, too, fear was mean. 
Dr. Mommsen throws himself heartily into Caesar's antipathy, and 
can scarcely speak of Cato without something like a loss of temper. 
The least uncivil thing which he says of him^ is that he was a Don 
Quixote, with Favonius for his Sancho. The phrase is not a happy 
one, since Sancho is not the caricature but the counterfoil of Don 
Quixote ; Quixote being spirit without sense, and Sancho sense without 
spirit. Imperiahsm, if it could see itself, is in fact a world of Sanchos, 
and it would not be the less so if every Sancho of the number were 
master of the whole of physical science and used it to cook his food. 
Of the two court-poets of Caesar's successor, one makes Cato preside 
over the spirits of the good in the Elysian fields, while the other speaks 
with respect, at all events, of the soul which remained unconquered 
in a conquered world — "Et cuncta terrarum subacta praeter atrocem 
animum Catonis." Paterculas, an officer of Tiberius and a thorough 
Caesarian, calls Cato a man of ideal virtue ('' homo virtuti simillimus "), 
who did right not for appearance sake, but because it was not in his 
nature to do wrong. When the victor is thus overawed by the shade 
of the vanquished, the vanquished could hardly have been a "fool." 
Contemporaries may be mistaken as to the merits of a character, but 
they cannot well be mistaken as to the space which it occupied in 
their own eyes. Sallust, the partisan of Marius and Caesar, who had 
so much reason to hate the senatorial party, speaks of Caesar and Cato 
as the two mightiest opposites of his time, and in an elaborate parallel 
ascribes to Caesar the qualities which secure the success of the adven- 
turer 3 to Cato those which make up the character of the patriot. It 
is a mistake to regard Cato the younger as merely an unseasonable 
repetition of Cato the elder. His inspiration came not from a Roman 
farm, but from a Greek school of philosophy, and from that school 
which, with all its errors and absurdities, and in spite of the hypocrisy 
of many of its professors, really aimed highest in the formation of 
character 3 and the practical teachings and aspirations of which, em- 
bodied in the reflections of Marcus Aurelius, it is impossible to study 
without profound respect for the force of moral conception and the 
depth of moral insight which they sometimes display. Cato went to 
Greece to sit at the feet of a Greek teacher in a spirit very different 



Smith.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 831 

from the national pride of his ancestor. It is this which makes his 
character interesting, that it was an attempt at all events to grasp and 
hold fast by the high rule of life, in an age when the whole moral 
world was sinking into a vortex of scoundrelism, and faith in 
morality, public or private, had been lost. Of course the character is 
formal, and in some respects even grotesque. But you may trace 
formalism, if you look close enough, in every life led by a rule- in 
everything between the purest spiritual impulse on the one side, and 
abandoned sensuality on the other. Attempts to revive old Roman 
simplicity of dress and habits in the age of Lucullus, were no doubt 
futile enough : but after all, this is but the symbolical garb of the 
Hebrew prophet. We are in ancient Rome, not in the smoking-room 
of the House of Commons. We are among the countrymen, too, of 
Savonarola. The character, as painted by Plutarch, who seems to 
have drawn from the writings of contemporaries, is hard of course, 
but not cynical. Caco was devoted to his brother Caepio, and when 
Caepio died, forgot all his Stoicism in the passionate indulgence of his 
grief, and all his frugality in lavishing gold and perfumes on the 
funeral. Caesar in Anti-Cato accused him of sifting the ashes for the 
gold, which, says Plutarch, is like charging Hercules with cowardice. 
Where the sensual appetites are repressed, whatever may be the theory 
of life, the affections are pretty sure to be strong, unless they are 
nipped by some such process as is undergone by a monk. Cato's 
resignation of his fruitful wife to a childless friend, revolting as it is to 
our sense, betokens less any brutahty in him than the coarseness of 
the conjugal relations at Rome. Evidently the man had the power 
of touching the hearts of others. His soldiers, though he gave them 
no largesses and indulged them in no licence, when he leaves them, 
strew their garments under his feet. His friends at Utica linger, at the 
peril of their lives, to give him a sumptuous funeral. He aifected 
conviviality, like Socrates. He seems to have been able to enjoy a 
joke, too, at his own expense. He can laugh when Cicero ridicules his 
Stoicism in a speech 3 and when in a province he meets the inha- 
bitants of a town turning out, and thinks at first that it is in his own 
honour, but soon finds that it is in honour of a much greater man, the 
confidential servant of Pompey, at first his dignity is outraged, but his 
anger soon gives place to amusement. That his public character was 
perfectly pure, no one seems to have doubted ; and there is a kindli- 
ness in his deahngs with the dependents of Rome, which shows that 
had he been an emperor he would have been such an emperor as 
Trajan — a man whom he probably resembled, both in the goodness 
of his intentions and in the limited powers of his mind. Impracti- 
cable^ of course, in a certain sense he was 3 but his part was that of a 



832 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Smith. 

reformer, and to compromise with the corruption against which he 
was contending, would have been to lose the only means of influence, 
which, having no military force and no party, he possessed — that of 
the perfect integrity of his character. He is said by Dr. Mommsen 
to have been incapable even of conceiving a policy, ^y policy I 
suspect is meant one of those brilliant schemes of ambition with which 
some literary men are fond of identifying themselves, fancying, it 
seems, that thereby they themselves, after their, measure, play the 
Caesar. The policy which Cato conceived was simply that of puri- 
fying and preserving the RepubUc. So far, at all events, he had an 
insight into the situation, that he knew that the real malady of the 
state was want of public spirit, which he did his best to supply. And 
the fact is, that he did more than once succeed in a remarkable way 
in stemming the tide of corruption. Though every instinct bade him 
struggle to the last, he had sense enough to see the state of the case, 
and to advise that, to avert anarchy, supreme power should be put 
into the hands of Pompey, whose political superstition, if not his 
loyalty, there was good reason to trust. When at last civil war broke 
out, Cato went into it like Falkland, crying *' peace j " he set his face 
steadily against the excesses and cruelties of his party j and when he 
saw the field of Dyrrhacium covered with his slain enemies, he covered 
his face and wept. He wept, a Roman over Romans, but humanity 
will not refuse the tribute of his tears. After Pharsalus he cherished 
no illusion, as Dr. Mommsen himself admits 3 and though he deter- 
mined himself to fall fighting, he urged no one else to resistance : he 
felt that the duty of an ordinary citizen was done. His terrible march 
over the African desert showed high powers of command, as we 
shall see by comparing it with the desert march of Napoleon. 
Dr. Mommsen ridicules his pedantry in refusing, on grounds of 
loyalty, to take the commandership in chief over the head of a 
superior in rank. Cato was fighting for legality, and the spirit of 
legahty was the soul of his cause. But besides this, he had never 
himself crossed his sword with an enemy ; and by declining the nomi- 
nal command he retained the whole control. He remained master 
to the last of the burning vessel. Our morality will not approve of 
his voluntary death J but our morality would give him a sufficient 
sanction for living, even if he was to be bound to the car of the con- 
queror. Looking to Roman opinion, he probably did what honour 
dictated j and those who prefer honour to life are not so numerous 
that we can afford to speak of them with scorn. — Macmilians 
Magazine, April, 1868. 



Sav-ary.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 833 



326.— DOMESTIC LIFE IN EGYPT IN 1776. 

[Nicholas Savary, 1750 — 1788. 

[Nicholas Savary, an eminent French traveller, was born at Vitre, 1750. In 1776 
he went to Egypt, whence he travelled through Greece and the islands of the 
Archipelago. On his return to France, he published a translation of the Koran 
from the Arabic. In 1781 appeared his "Letters on Egypt," and "Letters on 
Greece." He died at the age of thirty-eight, in 1788.] 

The harem is the cradle and school of infancy. The new-born feeble 
being is not there swaddled and filleted up in a swathe, the source of 
a thousand diseases. Laid naked on a mat, exposed in a vast chamber 
to the pure air, he breathes freely and stretches his delicate limbs at 
pleasure. The new element in which he is to live is not entered with 
pain and tears. Daily bathed beneath his mother's eye he grows 
apace. Free to act, he tries his coming powers 3 rolls, crawls, rises, 
and should he fall, cannot much hurt himself on the carpet or mat 
which covers the floor. 

He is not banished from his father's house at seven years old, and 
sent to college, with the loss of health and innocence. He does not, 
it is true, acquire much learning. He can only read and write ; but 
he is healthy, robust, fears God, respects old age, has filial piety, and 
delights in hospitality ; which virtues, constantly practised in his family, 
remain deeply engraven on his heart. 

The daughters' education is the same. Whalebones and busks, 
which martyr European girls, they know not. They are only covered 
with a single garment till they are six years old ; and the dress they 
afterwards wear does not confine their limbs, but suffers the body to 
take its true form j and nothing is more uncommon than rickety 
children and crooked people. Man rises in all his majesty, and woman 
displays every charm of person in the East. In Georgia and Greece 
those finely-marked outlines and admirable forms which the Creator 
gave to His masterpiece are best preserved. Apelles would still find 
models worthy of his pencil there. 

The care of their children does not wholly employ the women. 
Every other domestic concern is theirs. They overlook their house- 
hold, and do not think themselves debased by preparing their own 
food, or that of their husbands. Former customs still subsisting, 
render these cares duties. Thus Sarah hastened to bake cakes upon 
the hearth while angels visited Abraham, who performed to them the 
rites of hospitality. Menelaus thus entreats the departing Tele- 
machus : — 

" Yet stay, my friends, and in your chariot take 

The noblest presents that our love can make j 

3 H 



834 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Savary. 

Meantime, commit we to our women's care 
Some choice domestic viands to prepare." 

Popes Odyssey, lib. i^. 

Subject to the immutable laws which govern the East, the women 
do not associate with the men at table, where the union of sexes pro- 
duces mirth and wit, and makes food more sweet. When a great man 
is disposed to dine with one of his wives, she is informed ; prepares 
the apartment, perfumes it with precious essences, procures the most 
delicate viands, and receives her lord with the utmost attention and 
respect. Among the common people, the women usually stand, or 
sit in a corner of the room, while the husband dines, often hold the 
basin for him to wash, and serve him at table. Customs like these, 
which Europeans rightly call barbarous, and exclaim against with 
justice, appear so natural here, that they do not suspect it can be other- 
wise elsewhere. Such is the power of habit over man. What has 
been for ages, he supposes to be a law of nature. 

Though thus employed, the Egyptian women have much leisure, 
which they spend among their slaves, embroidering sashes, making 
veils, tracing designs to decorate their sofas, and in spinning. Such 
Homer painted the women of his times : — 

But not as yet the fatal news had spread 
To fair Andromache of Hector dead 3 
As yet no messenger had told his fate 
Nor e'en his stay without the Scean gate. 
Far in the close recesses of the dome 
Pensive she plied the melancholy loom j 
A growing work employed her social hours, 
Confus'dly gay with intermingled flow'rs : 
Her fair-hair'd handmaids heat the brazen urn. 
The bath preparing for her lord's return. 

Pope's Iliad, B. 22. 

Telemachus, seeing Penelope speak to suitors on affairs to which he 
thought her incompetent, says : — 

O, royal mother ! ever honoured name. 
Permit me, cries Telemachus, to claim 
A son's just right 3 no Grecian prince but I 
Has pow'r this bow to grant or to deny. 
Of all that Ithaca's rough hills contain. 
And all wide Elis' courser-breeding plain. 
To me alone my father's arms descend. 
And mine alone they are to give or lend. 



Cumberland.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 835 

Retire, O Queen ! thy household task resume. 
Tend with thy maids the labours of the loom 3 
The bow, the darts, and arms of chivalry. 
These cares to man belong, and most to me. 

Popes Odi/ssei/, B. 21. 

The Queen, far from being offended at this freedom, retired, ad- 
miring the manly wisdom of her son. 

Labour has its relaxations. Pleasure is not banished the harem. 
The nurse recounts the history of past times with a feeling in which 
her hearers participate. Cheerful and passionate songs are accompanied 
by the slaves with the tambour de basque, or with the castanets. 
Sometimes the Almai come to enliven the scene with their dances 
and aifecting recitals, and by relating romances j and at the close of 
day there is a repast in which exquisite fruits and perfumes are served 
Avith profusion. Thus do they endeavour to charm away the dulness 
of captivity. 

Not that they are wholly prisoners 5 once or twice a week they are 
permitted to go to the bath, and to visit their female relations and 
friends. To bewail the dead is, likewise, a duty they are allowed to 
perform. I have often seen distracted mothers round Grand Cairo re- 
citing funeral hymns over the tombs they had strewed with odoriferous 
plants. Thus Hecuba and Andromache lamented over the body of 
Hector, and thus Fatima and Sophia wept over Mahomet. 

•X- -X- -X- ■}{■ -x- •* 

Among European nations, where ties of kindred are much relaxed, 
they rid themselves as much as they can of the religious duties whicli 
ancient piety paid to the dead ; but the reason we die unregretted is 
because we have had the misfortune to live unloved. — Letters 07i Egypt. 



327.— SHAKSPEARE AND ^SCHYLUS COMPARED. 

[Richard Cumberland, 1732 — 1811. 

[Richard Cumberland was born at Cambridge, 1732. He was educated for the 
Church, but became secretary to the Board of Trade, and in 1 780 was sent to 
Madrid on a secret and confidential mission. He exceeded the expenditure allowed 
him, and subsequently retired to Tunbridge "Wells on a compensation allowance, 
where he devoted himself to literature. Cumberland wrote Tragedies, Comedies, 
Novels, Operas, and Pamphlets; but he is only remembered as an Essayist. He 
died at Tunbridge, 181 1.] 

There is no ancient poet that bears so close a resemblance in point 
of genius to any of the moderns, as ^schylus bears to Shakspeare. 

3 H 2 



836 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Cumberland. 

^Eschylus is justly styled the father of tragedy, but this is not to be inter- 
preted as if he were the inventor of it : Shakspeare, with equal justice, 
claims the same title, and his originality is quahfied with the same ex- 
ception. The Greek tragedy was not more rude and undigested when 
^schylus brought it into shape, than the English tragedy was when 
Shakspeare began to write ; if, therefore, it be granted that he had no 
aids from the Greek theatre (and I think this is not likely to be dis- 
puted), so far these great masters are upon equal ground. iEschylus 
was a warrior of high repute, of a lofty generous spirit, and deep, as 
it should seem, in the erudition of his times. In all these particulars 
he has great advantage over our conntryman, who was humbly born, 
and, as it is generally thought, unlearned, ^schylus had the whole 
epic of Homer in his hands, the Iliad, Odyssey, and that prolific source 
of dramatic fable, the Ilias Minor j he had also a great fabulous 
creation to resort to amongst his own divinities, characters ready 
defined, and an audience whose superstition was prepared for every 
thing he could oifer3 he had, therefore, a firmer and broader stage (if 
I may be allowed the expression) under his feet than Shakspeare had. 
His fables in general are Homeric, and yet it does not follow that we 
can pronounce for Shakspeare that he is more original in his plots, 
for I understand that late researches have traced him in all, or nearly 
all. Both poets added so much machinery and invention of their own 
in the conduct of their fables, that whatever might have been the 
source, still their streams had little or no taste of the spring they 
flowed from. In point of character we have better grounds to decide, 
and yet it is but justice to observe that it is not fair to bring a mangled 
poet in comparison with one who is entire. In his divine personages 
^schylus has the field of heaven, and indeed of hell also, to himself j 
in his heroic and military characters he has never been excelled -, he 
had too good a model within his own bosom to fail of making those 
delineations natural. In his imaginary beings also he will be found a 
respectable, though not an equal, rival of our poet ; but in the variety 
of character, in all the nicer touches of nature, in all the extrava- 
gances of caprice and humour, from the boldest feature down to the 
minutest foible, Shakspeare stands alone : such persons as he delineates 
never came into the contemplation of ^schylus as a poet j his tragedy 
has no dealing with them ; the simplicity of the Greek fable, and the 
great portion of the drama filled up by the chorus, allow of little 
variety of character 3 and the most which can be said of iEschylus in 
this particular is, that he never off'ends against nature or propriety, 
whether his cast is in the terrible or pathetic, the elevated or the 
simple. His versification with the intermixture of lyric compo- 
sition is more various than that of Shakspeare j both are lofty 



Hood.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 837 

and sublime in the extreme, abundantly metaphorical and sometimes 
extravagant : — 

Xube? et inania captat. 

This may be said of each poet in his turn : in each the critic, if he is 
in search for defects, will readily enough discover — 

In scenara missus magrno cum pondere versus. 

Both were subject to be hurried on by an uncontrollable impulse, nor 
could nature alone suffice for either. ^Eschylus had an apt creation of 
imaginary beings at command — 

He cx>uld call spirits from the vasty deep, 

and they would co?}ie. Shakspeare having no such creation in reserve, 
boldly made one ot his own} if ^Eschylus therefore was invincible, he 
owed it to his armour, and that, like the armour of ^Eneas, was the 
work of the gods ; but tbe unassisted invention of Shakspeare seized all 
and more than superstition supplied to .Eschylus. — Me7noriaIs of 
Shakspeare. 



328.— SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

[Thomas Hood, 179S — 1S45. 

[Thomas Hood vra? the son of a bookseller in the Poultn". He was apprenticed to his 
uncle, an engraver ; but, in 182 t, became sub-editor of the *' London ^lagazine ;" "sub- 
sequendv he became editor of the "New Monthly." Thomas Hood made his repu- 
tation as a humorist, but it is not by those brilliant sparks that he threw off when 
his gentle nature came in contact with harder materials, those flashes of wit that, year 
after year, in his comic annuals, made our Chribtmas firesides more cheerv, thnt we 
must judge of Hood. The man who wrote ''' The Bridge of Sighs," '* The Dream 
of Eugene Aram," and the "Song of the Shirt," had deeper feelings and finer inspi- 
rations than those which prompted " Young Ben the Carpenter," and " Ben Battle,'* 
and it is to be regretted that it was so late in his career that the public acknowledged 
his loftier genius. Thomas Hood died in 1845 • ^^ desired that his epitaph might 
be, " He sang the Song of the Shirt."] 

With lingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids he3\y and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch — stitch — stitch I 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the *' Song of the Shirt !" 



8^« THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Hood. 

" Work — work — work ! 
While the cock is crowing aloof 3 

And work — work — work 
Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's O ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save. 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work — work — work 
Till the brain begins to swim j 

Work — work — work 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, — 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over tl>e buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

''O! men with Sisters dear! 

O ! men with Mothers and Wives ! 
It is not linen you're wearing out. 
But human creatures' lives ! 

Stitch — stitch — stitch. 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
A Shroud as well as a Shirt ! 

" But why do I talk of Death ! 
That phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 

It seems so like my own. 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
Oh God ! that bread should be so dear. 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work ! 
My labour never flags j 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof, — and this naked floor, — 

A table, — a broken chair, — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there. 



Hood.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 839 

" Work — work — work ! 
From weary chime to chime. 

Work — work — work — 

As prisoners work for crime ! 

Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and band. 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed. 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — work. 
In the dull December light. 

And work — work — work. 
When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the Spring. 

'' Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 

With the sky above my head. 
And the grass beneath my feet. 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal ! • 

" Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief! 
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 

But only time for Grief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart. 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread !" 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! 

She sang this " Song of the Shirt !" — Poevis, 



840 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Wordsworth. 

329.— THE AGE OF COLUMBA. 

[The Right Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, Bishop of Lincoln, 1808. 

[The Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, son of the late Dr. Christopher Words- 
worth, Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, and nephew of the celebrated poet, 
was born in 1808, and was educated at Winchester, and Trinity College, Cambridge, 
where he took high honours, and was elected a Fellow of his college. He took holy 
orders, and was appointed in 1836 Public Orator at Cambridge and Head Master of 
Harrow School. In 1844, Sir Robert Peel preferred him to a canonry in West- 
minster Abbey. He was Hulsean Lecturer in 1847-8. His best known works are: 
"Theophilus Anglicanus," "Memoirs of William Wordsworth," "Athens and 
Attica," "Greece, Historical, Pictorial, and Descriptive," "St. Hippolytus and the 
Church of Roriie in the beginning of the Third Century " (from the newly dis- 
covered Philosophumena), " Letters to M. Gondin on the Distinctive Character of 
the Church of Rome," &c. &c. He has also edited "Ancient Writings from the 
Walls of Pompeii," " Correspondence of Richard Bentley, D.D.," and " Theo- 
critus," from ancient MSS. Mr. Gladstone made Dr. Wordsworth Bishop of 
Lincoln, 1869.] 

More than a thousand years ago the Church of Ireland was the 
burning and shining light of the Western World. Her Candlestick 
was seen from afar, diffusing its rays like the luminous beacon of 
some lofty lighthouse planted on a rock amid the foaming surge of 
the ocean, and casting its light over the dark sea to guide the mariner 
in his course. Such was the Church of Ireland then. Such she was 
specially to us. We, we of this land, must not endeavour to conceal 
our obligations to her. We must not be ashamed to confess, that 
with regard to learning — and especially with regard to sacred learn- 
ing — Ireland was in advance of England at that time. The sons of 
our nobles and gentry were sent for education thither. Ireland was 
the University of the West. She was rich in libraries, colleges, and 
schools. She was famous, as now, for hospitality. She received 
those who came to her with affectionate generosity, and provided 
them books and instructors. She trained them in sound learning, 
especially in the Word of God. 

Nor is this all. We, my brethren, are bound to remember that the 
Christianity of England and of Scotland was, in a great measure, 
reflected upon them from the West, by the instrumentality of Irish 
missionaries, especially of those who came from the Scriptural School 
of lona. That school was founded in the sixth century by St. Columba. 
He came from Ireland. He was from her ancient line of kings. 
He is justly regarded as the Apostle of the Highlands and Western 
Isles of Scotland. And if (as we have already seen to be probable) 
St. Patrick, the Apostle of Ireland, was a native of Scotland, both 
c:ountries may find pleasure in the refiecrion, that Ireland repaid the 
debt, and sent an Apostle to Scotland in the person of St. Columba. 



Wordsworth.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 841 

He preached the Gospel there thirty years before St. Austin landed 
in England. 

Many^ doubtless, who are here present, have stood on the sea-girt 
clitFs of lona, and have viewed with religious interest and veneration 
the mouldering remains of ancient Christianity which still survive on 
its solitary shore. The name of lona has been coupled with that of 
Marathon by one of our most celebrated writers, in a passage familiar 
to all 3* and they who are versed in the history of Christianity in 
their own land (and who ought not to study it ?), will gladly and 
gratefully confess, that the peaceful conquests achieved in our country 
by the saintly armies of lona, were far more beneficent and glorious 
than any that were ever gained on fields like that of Marathon j for 
the names of those who fought for these victories of the Gospel are 
inscribed — not in perishable records — but in the pages of the Book of 
Life. 

""Who are these that fly as a cloud, and as the Doves to their 
windows ? 

** Surely the Isles shall wait for Me." 

May we not be permitted to apply this prophetic language to 
them ? 

The Hebrew word here used for Island is /, and this is cognate 
with that by which lona was first known. It was originally called 
Hii. The Hebrew word here used for Dove is Yona. And the 
name of St, Columba signifies Dove. Hence it was that the Island 
to which we now refer was called I-ona, or the Island of St. Columha, 
or of the Dove. And it was also, and is stiJl, called by a word bearing 
the same sense, I-Colm-Kill, i. e. the Island of Columba, the founder 
of Churches ; for Kill, it is well known, signifies Church. \ 

When, therefore, we bear in mind these circumstances j when we 
recollect that the Dove is the scriptural emblem of the Christian soul ; 
and when we remember that lona, in those days, was a central church, 
a sacred school of the West, a refuge for the weary soul, to which 



* Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, by Dr. Samuel Johnson, p. 261 : 
Edinburgh, 1798. 

•f" Neander, Eccl. Hist, v. p. 11. "With regard to Ireland, Patricius had left 
behind him a band of scholars prepared to labour in the same spirit. Ireland was the 
seat of monastic institutions so renowned that they obtained for it the title of ' Insula 
Sanctorum.' In these retreats the Holy Scriptures were diligently read : hence arose 
missionary schools, as the convent at Bangor, founded by Comgail . . . Columba, 
about A.D. 565, came from Ireland, and planted the Gospel in the northern provinces 
of the Picts, who gave him the island of Hy, . . . which became a station for biblical 
literature. The island was named after him St lona, the names Columba and lona 
being probably the one the Latin, the other the Hebrew, translation of his original 
Irish name St. Columba and Columkill." 



842 THE EFERY-BAY BOOK [Wordsworth. 

many flocked from afar — may we not say that it was like a Christian 
Columbarium, where the doves found a house, and a nest where they 
might lay their young — even the altar of the Lord of Hosts ? And 
may we not here exclaim, ''Who are these that fly as a cloud, 
and as the Doves to their windows ? Surely the Isles shall wait for 
Me." 

St. Columba, having founded the missionary Church of lona, and 
having preached the Gospel in Scotland and the Isles, fell asleep in 
Christ, in a good old age, at the end of the sixth century (a.d. 

597)- 

But he being dead yet speaketh.^ 

Before the middle of the following century — the seventh century 
(a.d. 6^^) — the King of NorthumberJand,t Oswald, who had been 
educated in the Irish Church,^ sent to it for Christian teachers, that 
they might convert his subjects from Paganism. Accordingly, Aidan, 
an Irish bishop, and other Irish missionaries, went forth from the 
school of Columba, and were settled by the king at Lindisfarne, and 
preached the Gospel in Northumberland, and planted the Church 
there. 

The happy effects of this mission from lona were felt throughout 
England, from the river Humber to the Thames. § Churches were 



* Heb. xi. 4. 

t In course of time Oswald's dominions extended over a great part of Britain and 
Scotland. See Bede, iii. 6. He reigned nine years. Ibid. iii. 9. J Bede, iii. 3. 

§ Ussher, Rel. Anct. Irish, ch, x. p. 86. "Aidan and Finan deserve to be honoured 
by the English nation with as venerable a remembrance as Austin the monk and his 
followers. For by the ministry of Aidan was the kingdom of Northumberland re- 
covered from Paganism, whereunto belonged then, beside the shire of Northumberland 
and the lands beyond it unto Edinburgh Frith, Cumberland also, and Westmoreland, 
Lancashire, Yorkshire, and the Bishopric of Durham. And by means of Finan, not only 
the kingdom of the East Saxons, which contained Essex, Middlesex, and half of Herts, 
were regained, but also the large kingdom of Mercia was converted first unto Chris- 
tianity, which comprehended under it Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, Worcestershire^ 
Warwickshire, Leicestershire, Rutlandshire, Northamptonshire, Lincoln, Huntingdon, 
Beds, Bucks, Oxford, Stafford, Derby, Salop, Notts, Cheshire, and the other half of 
Herts. The Scottish (or Irish), who professed ??,o subjection to the Church of Rome, 
were they that sent preachers for the conversion of these countries, and ordained bishops 
to govern them, viz., Aidan, Finan, and Colman successively for the kingdom ot 
Northumberland ; for the East Saxons, Cedd, brother to Cedda, Bishop of York ; for 
the Middle Angles and Mepcians, Diuma (see Bede, iii. 3-5, 22-26). And these 
with their followers, notwithstanding their division from the See of Rome, were, for 
their extraordinary sanctity of life and painful preaching of the Gospel (wherein they 
v;e?itfar beyond the other side that afterwards thrust them out and entered in upon 
their labours), exceedingly reverenced by them that knew them." 

Inett, chap, iv., concerning the missionary labours of the Irish bishops Aidan, Finan, 
Cedda, and Diuma, pp. 46, 47 : "Aidan, sent for from Ireland by Oswald, King of 
Northumberland, and settled at Lindisfarne; he and the Irish clergy establish schools. 



Mullen] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 843 

built, the people flocked with joy to hear the Word of God. The 
Heavenly Dove — the Holy Spirit of God — brooded invisibly over the 
heads of thousands baptized by these Irish missionaries in the faith of 
Christ in our own land. Multitudes, wearied by the storm, and 
finding no rest for the sole of their feet on the wilderness of the waters 
of this life, took refuge in the Ark of the Church. 

Then, through our own island, the ear of Faith might have heard 
the prophetic voice : Who are these that Jiy as a cloud, and as the 
Doves to their windows ? 

Surely the Isles shall wait for Me* 
— Occasional Sermons. No. 27, on the '* Church History of Ireland." 



330.— THE YOUTH OF PINDAR. 

[Karl Otfried Muller, 1797 — 1841. 

[Karl Otfried Muller, one of the greatest scholars of modern times, was born at 
Brieg, in Silesia, in 1797. He completed his education at the University of Berlin, 
and became Professor of Ancient Languages at Breslau, in 1817. In 1820, he was 
appointed Professor of Archaeology, or Ancient Art, at Gottingen. He then began a 
searching investigation of the principles of ancient art, and visited Dresden, France, 
and England in pursuance of this design. His chief works are, " Manual of the 
History of Ancient Art," " History of Greek Literature " (written for the Society for 
the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, and left unfinished at his death), " The Dorians," 
"The Etruscans," and an edition of the " Eumenides" of iEschylus. Muller died in 
Greece, in 1841.] 

Pindar was born in the spring of 522 B.C. (Olymp. 64. 3) ; and, 
according to a probable statement, he died at the age of eighty.f He 
was therefore nearly in the prime of his life at the time when Xerxes 
invaded Greece, and the battles of Thermopylae and Salamis were 
fought. He thus belongs to that period of the Greek nation, when 
its. great qualities were first distinctly unfolded 3 and when it exhibited 
an energy of action, and a spirit of enterprise, never afterwards sur- 
passed, together with a love of poetry, art, and philosophy, which pro- 
duced much, and promised to produce more. The modes of thought, 
and style of art, which arose in Athens after the Persian war, must 
have been unknown to him. He was indeed the contemporary of 



and by their ministry the people north of the Humber are generally converted. The 
midland and southern parts of England are converted by them and their 
successors." * Isaiah, Ix. 8. 

t For Pindar's life, see Boeckh's Pindar, torn. iii. p. 12. To the authorities there 
mentioned, may be added the Introduction of Eustathius to his Commentary on Pindar 
in Eustathii Opuscula, p. 32, ed. Tafel. 1832. (Eustath. Prooem. Comment. Pindar, ed. 
Schneidewin. 1837.) 



844 THE E VERY-DAY BOOK [Miiller. 

jEschylus, and he admired the rapid rise of Athens in the Persian war j 
calling it " The Pillar of Greece^ brilliant Athens, the worthy theme 
of poets." But the causes which determined his poetical character 
are to be sought in an earlier period, and in the Doric and ^olic parts 
of Greece 3 and hence we shall divide Pindar from his contemporary 
iEschylus, by placing the former at the close of the earlier period, the 
latter at the head of the new period of literature. , 

Pindar's native place was Cynocephalae, a village in the territory of 
Thebes, the most considerable city of Bceotia. Although in his time 
the voices of Pierian bards, and of epic poets of the Hesiodean school 
had long been mute in Boeotia, yet there was still much love for music 
and poetry, which had taken the prevaihng form of lyric and choral 
compositions. That these arts were widely cultivated in Boeotia is 
proved by the fact that two women, Myrtis and Corinna, had attained 
great celebrity in them during the youth of Pindar. Both were com- 
petitors with Pindar in poetry. Myrtis strove with him for a prize at 
public games : and although Corinna said, "It is not meet that the 
clear-toned Myrtis, a woman born, should enter the lists with Pindar :"* 
yet she is said (perhaps from jealousy of his growing fame) to have 
often contended against him in the agones, and to have gained the 
victory over him five times.f Pausanias, in his travels, saw at Tanagra, 
the native city of Corinna, a picture in which she was represented as 
binding her head with a fillet of victory which she had gained in aeon- 
test with Pindar. He supposes that she was less indebted for this 
victory to the excellence of her poetry than to her Boeotian dialect, 
which was more familiar to the ears of the judges at the games, and to 
her extraordinary beauty. Corinna also assisted the young poet with 
her advice j it is related of her that she recommended him to ornament 
his poems with mythical narrations, but that when he had composed a 
hymn, in the first six verses of which (still extant) almost the whole of 
the Theban mythology was introduced, she smiled and said, "We 
should sow with hand, not with the whole sack." Too little of the 
poetry of Corinna has been preserved to allow of our forming a safe 
judgment of her style of composition. The extant fragments refer 
mostly to mythological subjects, particularly to heroines of the Boeotian 
legends 5 this, and her rivalry with Pindar, show that she must be classed 
not in the Lesbian school of lyric poets, but among the masters of choral 
poetry. 

* The following is the passage in Corinna's dialect : 

lxefi<pofir) d^ kt) Xiyovpav Movprid' iMvya 
oTi (Suva ^oOcr' tfia Uivddpoio ttot' tpiv. 

A pollen, dc Pronom. p. 924. B. 
t yElian, V. H. xiii. 24. 



Miiller.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 845 

The family of Pindar seems to have been skilled in music j we learn 
from the ancient biographies of him that his father, or his uncle, was a 
flute-player. Flute-playing (as we have more than once remarked) 
was brought from Asia Minor into Greece ; its Phrygian origin may 
perhaps be indicated by the fact that Pindar had in his house at Thebes, 
a small temple of the Mother of the gods and Pan, the Phrygian 
deities, to whom the first hymns to the flute were supposed to have 
been sung.* The music of the flute had moreover been introduced 
into Boeotia at a very early period ; the Copaic lake produced excellent 
reeds for flutes, and the worship of Dionysus, which was supposed to 
have originated at Thebes, required the varied and loud music of the 
flute. Accordingly the Boeotians were early celebrated for their skill 
m flute-playing ; whilst at Athens the music of the flute did not become 
common till after the Persian war, when the desire for novelty in art 
had greatly increased.! 

But Pindar very early in his life soared far beyond the sphere of a 
flute-player at festivals, or even a lyric poet of merely local celebrity. 
He placed himself under the tuition of Lasus of Hermione, a distin- 
guished poet, already mentioned, but probably better versed in the 
theory than the practice of poetry and music. Since Pindar made 
these arts the whole business of his life,^ and was nothing but a poet 
and a musician, he soon extended the boundaries of his art to the 
whole Greek nation, and composed poems of the choral lyric kind for 
persons in all parts of Greece. At the age of twenty he composed a 
song of victory in honour of a Thessalian youth belonging to the gens 
of the Aleuads § We find him employed soon afterwards for the Sici- 
lian rulers, Hiero of Syracuse, and Thero of Agrigentum ; for Arcesi- 
laus, king of Gyrene, and Amyntas, king of Macedonia, as well as for 
the free cities of Greece. He made no distinction according to the race 
of the persons whom he celebrated : he was honoured and loved by the 
Ionian states, for himself as well as for his art ; the Athenians made 
him their public guest {Trpolevoo) ; and the inhabitants of Ceos em- 
ployed him to compose a processional song (Trpotru^Lov), although they 
had their own poets, Simonides and Bacchylides. Pindar, however, 
was not a common mercenary poet, always ready to sing the praises of 
him whose bread he ate. He received indeed money and presents for 
his poems, according to the general usage previously introduced by 
Simonides ; yet his poems are the genuine expression of his thoughts 
and feelings. In his praises of virtue and good fortune, the colours 



* Marm. Par. ep. 10. f Aristot. Polit. viii. 7. 

J Like Sappho, he is called ixovgottoioq. 

§ Pyth. X. composed in Olymp. 69. 3. b.c. 502. 



846 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Reade, 

which he employs are not too vivid 5 nor does he avoid the darker 
shades of his subject 3 he often suggests topics of consolation for past 
and present evil, and sometimes warns and exhorts to avoid future 
calamity. — History of the Literature of Ancient Greece, chap. xv. 



331.— LORD IPSDEN CONVERSES WITH THE "LOWER ORDERS," IN 
COMPLIANCE WITH HIS DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION. 

[Charles Reade, D.C.L., 1814. 

[Charles Reade, youngest son of the late John Reade, Esq., of Ipsden House, Oxford- 
shire, was born in 1814, and was educated at Magdalen College, Oxford, where he 
graduated B.A. in 1835. He was successively a Demy and a Fellow of his College. 
He was called to the bar in 1843, ^^ Lincoln's Inn. " Christie Johnstone," and " Peg 
Woffington," were his first works, and by their spirit and originality won him at once! 
a place as a popular author. These tales were followed by " Never too late to Mend," 
"The Course of True Love," and " White Lies," "The Cloister and the Hearth," 
and some successful plays, &c. &c.] 

Christie stood by Lord Ipsden, with one hand on her hip (the 
knuckles downwards), but graceful as Antinous, and began : 

" Hoo muckle is the Queen greater than you are ?" 

His lordship was obliged to reflect. 

'' Let me see. As the moon is to a wax taper, so is her Majesty the 
Queen to you and me and the rest." 

" And whar does the Juke'* come in ?" 

" On this particular occasion the Dukef makes one of us, my pretty 
maid." 

" I see ! Are na ye awfu' proud o' being a lorrd ?" 

"What an idea!" 

" His lordship did not go to bed a spinning-jenny, and rise up a 
lord, like some of them," put in Saunders. 

" Saunders," said the peer, rather doubtfully, *' eloquence rather bores 
people." 

" Then I must not speak again, my lord," said Saunders, respectfully. 

" Noo," said the fair inquisitor, "ye shall tell me how ye came to 
be lorrds, your family ?" 

" Saunders !" 

** Na ! ye mauna flee to Sandy for a' thing, ye are no a bairn, are 
ye ?" 

Here was a dilemma, the Saunders prop knocked rudely away, and 
obliged to think for ourselves. 

But Saunders would come to his distressed master's assistance. He 



* Buccleuch. f Wellington. 



Reade.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 847 

furtively conveyed to him a plump book. This was Saunders's manual 
of faith ; the author was Mr. Burke, not Edmund. 

Lord Ipsden ran hastily over the page, closed the book, and said, 
" Here is the story. Five hundred years ago " 

" Listen, Jean," said Christie, **^ we're gaun to get a bonnie story. 
Five hundre' years ago," added she, with interest and awe. 

" was a great battle," resumed the narrator, in cheerful tones, as 

one larking with history, '^between a king of England and his rebels. 
He was in the thick of the fight " 

"That's the king, Jean 3 he was in the thick o't." 

" My ancestor killed a fellow who was sneaking behind him, but 
the next moment a man-at-arms prepared a thrust at his majesty, who 
had his hands full with three assailants." 

"Eh! that's no fair," said Christie, "as sure as deeth." 

" My ancestor dashed forward, and as the king's sword passed 
through one of them, he clave another to the waist with a blow." 

" Weel done ! weel done !" 

Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, her eyes were glittering, and her 
cheek flashing. 

"Good heavens !" thought he, "she believes it!" So he began to 
take more pains with his legend. 

"But for the spearman," continued he, " he had nothing but his 
body 3 he gave it, it was his duty, and received the death levelled at 
his sovereign." 

" Hech ! puir mon." And the glowing eyes began to ghsten. 

"The battle flowed another way, and God gave victory to the 
right 3 but the king came back to look for him, for it was no common 
service." 

" 'Deed, no !" 

Here Lord Ipsden began to turn his eyes inwards, and call up the 
scene. He lowered his voice. 

" They found him lying on his back, looking death in the face. The 
nobles by the king's side uncovered as soon as he was found, for they 
were brave men, too. There was a moment's silence 3 eyes met eyes 
and said, * This is a stout soldier's last battle.' The king could not bid 
him hve." 

" Na ! lad. King Deeth has too strong a grip." 

" But he did what kings can do : he gave him two blows with his 
royal sword." 

"Oh ! the robber 5 and him a deeing mon." 

"Two words from his royal mouth, and he and we were Barons of 
Ipsden and Hawthorn Glen from that day to this." 

" But the puir dying creature ?" 



848 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Reade. 

"What poor dying creature?" 

"^ Your forbear, lad." 

" I don't know why you call him poor, madam -, all the men of 
that day are dust j they are the gold dust, who died with honour. 
He looked round uneasily- for his son — for he had but one — and 
when that son knelt unwounded by him, he said, ' Good night. Baron 
Ipsden !' and so he died, fire in his eye, a smile on his lip, and honour 
on his name for ever. I meant to tell you a lie, and I've told you the 
truth." 

"Laddie," said Christie, half admiringly, half reproachfully, "ye 
gar the tear come in my een. Hech ! look at yon lassie ! how could 
you eat plums through siccan a story ?" 

" Hets," answered Jean, who had, in fact^ cleared the plate, " I aye 
listen best when my ain mouth's stappit." 

" But see now," pondered Christie, " twa words fra a king — their 
titles are just breeth." 

"Of course," was the answer, " all titles are. What is popularity ? 
Ask Aristides and Lamartine : — the breath of a mob — smells of its 
source — and is gone before the sun can set on it. Now the royal breath 
does smell of the Rose and Crown, and stays by us from age to age." 

The story had warmed our marble acquaintance. Saunders opened 
his eyes and thought, " We shall wake up the House of Lords some 
evening — we shall." 

His lordship then added, less warmly, looking at the girls — 

"I think I should like to be a fisherman." 

So saying my lord yawned slightly. To this aspiration the young 
fishwives deigned no attention, doubting, perhaps, its sincerity 5 and 
Christie, with a shade of severity, inquired of him how he came to 
be a Vile count, 

" A baron's no a Vile count, I'm sure," said she, " sae tell me how 
ye came to be a Vile count." 

"Ah," said he, "that is by no means a pretty story like the other j 
you will not like it, I am sure." 

"Ay, will I — ay, will I; I'm aye seeking knoewledge." 

" Well, it is soon told. One of us sat twenty years on one seat, in 
the same house, so one day he got up a — viscount." 

" Ower muckle pay for ower little wark." 

" Now don't say that. I wouldn't do it to be the Emperor of Russia." 

" Aweel, I hae gotten a heap out o' ye^ sae noow I'll gang, since ye 
are no for herrin' ; come away, Jean." — Christie Johnstone, chap. ii. 



Middleton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 849 



332.— CICERO'S TRAVELS IN GREECE AND ASIA. 

[CoNYERS Middleton, D.D., 1683 — 1750. 

[CoN-VERs Middleton, D.D.,born 1683, received his academical education at Trinity 
CoUege, Cambridge, of which he w:is chosen Fellow in 1706. In 1717, when he 
received the degree of D.D., he resisted the claim of Dr. Bentley, Regius Professor, 
to exorbitant fees. In 1724 he spent some time in Italy, and on his return published 
his famous " Letters from Rome." His " Life of Cicero," a very curious and valu- 
able work, was published in 1741. In 1743 he published "Epistles of Cicero to 
Brutus, and those of Brutus to Cicero," with a vindication of their authenticity. 
Dr. Middleton died in 1750.] 

We have a clear account from himself [Cicero] of the real motive of 
his journey : — " My body/' says he, " at this time v^^as exceedingly weak 
and emaciated j my neck long and small 3 which is a habit thought 
liable to great risk of life, if engaged in any fatigue or labour of the 
lungs ; and it gave the greater alarm to those who had a regard for 
me, that I used to speak without any remission or variation, with the 
utmost stretch of my voice, and great agitation of my body. When 
my friends therefore and physicians advised me to meddle no more 
with causes, I resolved to run any hazard rather than quit the hopes of 
glory which I proposed to myself from pleading : but when I con- 
sidered that by managing my voice, and changing my way of speaking, 
I might both avoid all danger and speak with more ease, I took a re- 
solution of travelling into Asia, merely for an opportunity of correcting 
my manner of speaking : so that after I had been two years at the 
bar, and acquired a reputation in the Forum, I left Rome," &c. 

He was twenty-eight years old when he set forward upon his travels 
to Greece and Asia — the fashionable tour of all those who travelled 
either for curiosity or improvement. His first visit was to Athens, the 
capital seat of arts and sciences, where some writers tell us that he 
spent three years, though in truth it was but six months. He took up 
his quarters with Antiochus, the principal philosopher of the old 
academy J and under this excellent master renewed, he says, those 
studies which he had been fond of from his earliest youth. Here he 
met with his schoolfellow, T. Pomponius, who from his love to 
Athens, and his spending a great part of his days in it, obtained the 
surname of Atticus 3 and here they revived and confirmed that memo- 
rable friendship which subsisted between them through life with so 
celebrated a constancy and aflection. Atticus, being an Epicurean, 
was often drawing Cicero from his host Antiochus to the conversation 
of Phaedrus and old Zeno, the chief professors of that sect, in hopes of 
making him a convert : on which subject they used to have many 
disputes between themselves 3 but Cicero's view in these visits was but 
to convince himself more effectually of the weakness of that doctrine, 

31 



850 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Middleton. 

by observing how easily it might be confuted, when explained even 
by the ablest teachers. Yet he did not give himself up so entirely to 
philosophy as to neglect his rhetorical exercises, which he performed 
still every day very diligently with Demetrius the Syrian, an experi- 
enced master of the art of speaking. 

It was in this first journey to Athens that he was initiated most 
probably into the Eleusinian mysteries : for though we have no ac- 
count of the time, yet we cannot fix it better than in a voyage under- 
taken both for the improvement of his mind and body. The reverence 
with which he always speaks of these mysteries, and the hints that he 
has dropt of their end and use, seem to confirm what a very learned 
and ingenious writer has delivered of them, that they were contrived 
to inculcate the unity of God and the immortality of the soul. As for 
the first, after observing to Atticus, who was one also of the initiated, 
how the gods of the popular religions were all but deceased mortals, 
advanced from earth to heaven, he bids him remember the doctrine of 
the mysteries, in order to recollect the universality of that truth : and 
as to the second, he declares his initiation to be in fact what the name 
itself implied, a real begining of life to him, as it taught the way not 
only of living with greater pleasure, bat of dying also with a better 
hope. 

From Athens he passed into Asia, where he gathered about him all 
the principal orators of the country, who kept him company through 
the rest of the voyage, and with whom he constantly exercised himself 
in every place where he made any stay. "The chief of them," says 
he, ''was Menippus of Stratonica, the most eloquent of all the Asiatics j 
and if to be neither tedious nor impertinent be the characteristic of an 
Attic orator, he may justly be ranked in that class. Dionysius also of 
Magnesia, JEschylus of Cnidos, and Xenocles of Adramyttus were con- 
tinually with me, who were reckoned the first rhetoricians of Asia : nor 
yet content with these, I went to Rhodes, and applied myself again to 
Mola, whom I had heard before at Rome, who was both an experi- 
enced pleader, and a fine writer, and particularly expert in observing 
the faults of his scholars, as well as in his method of teaching and im- 
proving them. His greatest trouble with me was to restrain the 
exuberance of a juvenile imagination, always ready to overflow its 
banks, within its due and proper channel." 

But as at Athens, where he employed himself chiefly in philosophy, 
he did not intermit his oratorical studies, so at Rhodes, where his chief 
study was oratory, he gave some share also of his time to philosophy 
with Posidonius, the most esteemed and learned Stoic of that age, 
whom he often speaks of with honour, not only as his master, but as 
his friend. It was his constant care that the progress of his knowledge 



Middleton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 851 

should keep pace with the improvement of his eloqneDce ; he con- 
sidered the one as the foundation of tlie other, and thought it in vain 
to acquire ornaments before he had provided necessary furniture. He 
declaimed here in Greek because Molo did not understand Latin 5 and 
upon ending his declamation, while the rest of the company w^ere lavish 
of their praises, Molo, instead of paying any compliment, sat silent a 
considerable time, till observing Cicero somewhat disturbed at it, he 
said, "As for you, Cicero, I praise and admire you, but pity the for- 
tune of Greece, to see arts and eloquence, the only ornaments which 
were left to her, transplanted by you to Rome." Having thus finished 
the circuit of his travels, he came back again to Italy, after an excur- 
sion of two years, extremely improved, and changed as it were into a 
new man : the vehemence of his voice and action was moderated, the 
redundancy of his style and fancy corrected, his lungs strengthened, 
and his whole constitution confirmed. 

This voyage of Cicero seems to be the only scheme and pattern of 
travelUng from which any real benefit is to be expected. He did not 
stir abroad till he had completed his education at home : for nothing 
can be more pernicious to a nation than the necessity of a foreign one ; 
and after he had acquired in his own country whatever was proper to 
form a worthy citizen and magistrate of Rome, he went, confirm.ed by 
a maturity of age and reason against the impressions of vice, not so 
much to learn as to polish what he had learnt, by visiting those places 
where arts and sciences flourished in tlieir greatest perfection. In a 
tour the most delightful of the w^orld, he saw everything that could 
entertain a curious traveller, yet stayed nowhere any longer than his 
benefit, not his pleasure, detained him. By his previous knowledge of 
the laws of Rome, he was able to compare them w^ith those of other 
cities, and to bring back w^ith him w^hatever he found useful either 
to his country or to himself. He w^as lodged wherever he came in 
the houses of the great and the eminent, not so much for their birth 
and wealth as for their virtue, knowledge, and learning} men honoured 
and reverenced in their several cities as the principal patriots, orators, 
and philosophers of the age. These he made the constant companions 
of his travels, that he might not lose the opportunity, even on the road, 
of profiting by their advice and experience ; and from such a voyage 
it is no wonder that he brought back every accomplishment which 
could improve and adorn a man of sense. — History of the Life oj 
Marcus TulJius Cicero, vol. i. 



3 I 2 



852 THE EJ'ERY-DAY BOOK [M'Leod. 

333.— THE ISLAND OF LEWCHEW IN 1816. 

[Dr. John M'Leod, 1782 — 1820. 
[John M'Leod was a surgeon in the Royal Navy. Born 1782. When theeallant Sir 
Murray Maxwell took out Lord Amherst on his embassy to Chuia, in 1816, Mr. 
M'Leod accompanied him as surgeon of H.M.S. Alceste ; the Lyra, Captain 
Basil Hall, and an Indiaman, escorting them, and carrying the presents. The 
Alceste struck on a sunken rock, until then unknown, in the Straits of Caspar, on 
her retuin, and was lost. The crew were, however, saved ; and on his return to 
England Dr. M'Leod wrote a narrative of his voyage to the Vellow Sea, and of the 
shipwreck of the Alceste, which is full of iiiterest even at the present day. It was 
published in 1817. On his return to England the services of Dr. M'Leod were re- 
warded by his appointment to the Roi/al Sovereign yacht (the King's), but he did 
not long enjoy his promotion; he died in lodgings in the King's Road, Chelsea, on 
the 9th of November, 1820, at the age of thirty-eight.] 

The island of Lewchew itself is situate in the happiest climate of the 
globe. Refreshed by the sea-breezes, which, from its geographical 
position, blow over it at every period of the year, it is free from the 
extremes of heal and cold which oppress many other countries j whilst 
from the general configuration of the land, being more adapted to the 
production of rivers and streams than of bogs and marshes, one great 
source of disease in the warmer latitudes has no existence : and the 
people seemed to enjoy robust health j for we observed no diseased 
objects, nor beggars of any description among them. 

The verdant lawns and romantic scenery of Tinian and Juan Fer- 
nandes, so well described in Anson's Voyage, are here displayed in 
higher perfection, and on a much more magniticent scale; for culti- 
vation is added to the most enchanting beauties of nature. From a 
commanding height above the ships, the view is, in all directions, 
picturesque and delightful. On one hand are seen the distant islands, 
rising from a wide expanse of ocean, whilst the clearness of the water 
enables the eye to trace all the coral reefs which protect the anchorage 
immediately below. To the south is the city of Nafoo, the vessels at 
anchor in the harbour, with their streamers flying; and in the inter- 
mediate space appear numerous hamlets scattered about on the banks 
of the rivers which meander in the valley beneath ; the eye being, in 
every direction, charmed by the various hues of the luxuriant foliage 
around their habitations. Turning to the east, the houses of Kint- 
ching, the capital city, built in their peculiar style, are observed here 
and there, opening from among the lofty trees which surround and 
shade them, rising one above another in gentle ascent to the summit 
of a hill, which is crowned by the king's palace : the intervening 
groends between Napatbo and Kint-ching, a distance of some miles, 
being ornamented by a continuation of villas and coimtry-houses. To 
the north, as far as the eye can reach, the higher land is covered with 
extensive forests. 



M'Leod.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 853 

At a short distance from this eminence the traveller is led by a 
foot-path to what seems only a little wood -, on entering which^ under 
an archway formed by the intermingling branches of the opposite 
trees, he passes along a serpentine labyrinth, every here and there in- 
tersected by others. Not far from each other, on either side of these 
walks, small wicker doors are observed, on opening any of which he is 
surprised by the appearance of a court-yard and house, with the 
children, and all the usual cottage train, generally gambolling about; 
so that, whilst a man fancies himself in some lonely and sequestered 
retreat, he is, in fact, in the middle of a populous, but invisible village. 

Nature has been bountiful in all her gifts to Lewchew : for such is 
the felicity of its soil and climate, that productions of the vegetable 
kingdom, very distinct in their nature, and generally found in regions 
far distant from each other, grow here side by side. It is not merely, 
as might be expected, the country of the orange and the lime, but 
the banyan of India and the Norwegian fir, the tea-plant and sugar- 
cane, all flourish together. In addition to many good qualities, not 
often found combined, this island can also boast its rivers and secure 
harbours; and last, though not least, a worthy, a friendly, and a happy 
race of people. 

Many of these islanders displayed a spirit of intelligence and genius, 
which seemed ths more extraordinary considering the confined circle 
in which they live ; such confinement being almost universally found 
to be productive of narrowness of mind. Our friends here were an 
exception to the general rule. Madera Cosyong, one of our most con- 
stant and intimate friends, acquired such proficiency in the English 
language, in the course of a few weeks, as to make himself tolerably 
understood. He evidently came on board, in the first instance, as a 
spy upon our conduct, before they were satisfied that we meant no 
harm ; and no man was ever better adapted for this duty ; for, as his 
conciliatory and pleasing manner won upon all hearts, he had therefore 
a natural access everywhere, and had " stratagems or schemes" existed, 
he, of all others, was the most likely, to have discovered them. 

His not assuming his proper character, which was that of a man of 
some distinction, until his mind was satisfied about us, and his then 
doing it with frankness, is a proof that such were his original motives. 
To acquire our tongue, he marked the sound of any English word for 
the most familiar articles of the table, or terms of conversation, and 
noted them in symbols of his own language, with their signification, 
which enabled him, with slight reference to his vocabulary, to manage 
without having recourse to the interpreter. If he happened to be 
w^alking on shore with any of the officers, he would not lose the 
sound or meaning of a word because he had not his book with him. 



854 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Faraday. 

but scratched it on the leaf of a tree, and transcribed it at his leisure. 
His first attempt to connect a sentence was rather sudden and unex- 
pected. Rising to go away one evening after his usual lesson, he 
slowly articulated, "You give me good wine. I tank you. I go 
shore." He dehghted in receiving information, and his remarks were 
always pertinent. The map of the world, with the track of the ship 
from England to Lewchew, was pointed out and, explained to him, 
which he, as well as others, seemed to trace with peculiar care, and at 
last, in a great degree, to comprehend, although the subject was, in 
the first instance, entirely new to them, for they certainly had no idea 
of the vast extent or figure of the globe. He was gay or serious, as 
occasion required, but was always respectable ; and of Madera it 
might be truly said, that he was a gentleman, not formed upon this 
model or according to that rule, but "stamped as such by the 
sovereign hand of nature," 

They all seemed to be gifted with a sort of politeness which had 
the fairest claim to be termed natural j for there was nothing con- 
strained, nothing stiif or studied in it. — Narrative of a Voyage in H.M.S. 
Alceste to the Yellow Sea. 



334.— THE BREATH OF LIFE. 

[Michael Faraday, 1794 — 1867. 

[Michael Faraday was born in London, 1794. He was at first apprenticed to the 
trade of bookbinding, but his great talents procured him the patronage of Sir 
Humphry- Davy, through whose interest he was taken into the laboratory of the 
Royal Institution of London, where he pursued his studies. The lectures which he 
delivered at the Institution proved a continual attraction to the public. He succeeded 
in establishing, if not in discovering, the laws of electro-magnetism. In 1827, he 
published his "Chemical Manipulations." This work was followed by " Experi- 
mental Researches in Electricity," and his "Chemical Histor}'of a Candle," &c. ice, 
lectures delivered at the Royal institution in 1 860-1. Faraday died in 1867.] 

What is all this process going on within us which we cannot do 
without, either day or night, which is so provided for by the Author 
of all things, that He has arranged that it shall be independent of all 
will ? If we restrain our respiration, as we can to a certain extent, 
we should destroy ourselves. When we are asleep, the organs of 
respiration, and the parts that are associated with them, still go on 
with their action, so necessary is this process of respiration to us, this 
contact of air with the lungs. I must tell you, in the briefest possible 
manner, what this process is. We consume food : the food goes 
through that strange set of vessels and organs within us, and is brought 
into various parts of the system, into the digestive parts especially ; 
and alternately the portion which is so changed is carried through our 
lungs by one set of vessels, while the air that we inhale and exhale is 



Faraday.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 855 

drawn into and thrown out of the lungs by another set of vessels, so 
that the air and the food come close together, separated only by an 
exceedingly thin surface : the air can thus act upon the blood by this 
process, producing precisely the same results in kind as we have seen 
in the case of the candle. The candle combines with parts of the air, 
forming carbonic acid, and evolves heat 3 so in the lungs there is this 
curious, wonderful change taking place. The air entering, combines 
with the carbon (not carbon in a free state, but, as in this case, placed 
ready for action at the moment), and makes carbonic acid, and is so 
thrown out into the atmosphere, and thus this singular result takes 
place: we may thus look upon the food as fuel. Let me take that 
piece of sugar, which will serve my purpose. It is a compound of 
carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen, similar to a candle, as containing the 
same elements, though not in the same proportion 3 the proportions 
in sugar being as shown in this table : — 

Carbon .....,., 72 

Hydrogen " 1 nn 

Oxygen 88 i 99 

This is, indeed, a very curious thing, which you can well remem- 
ber, for the oxygen and hydrogen are in exactly the proportions 
which form water, so that sugar may be said to be compounded of 
72 parts of carbon and 99 parts of watery and it is the carbon in the 
sugar that combines with the oxygen carried in by the air in the pro- 
cess of respiration, so making us like candles ; producing these actions, 
warmth, and far more wonderful results besides, for the sustenance of 
the system, by a most beautiful and simple process. To make this 
still more striking, I will take a little sugar ; or to hasten the 
experiment I will use some syrup, which contains about three-fourths 
of sugar and a little water. If I put a little oil of vitriol on it, it takes 
away the water, and leaves the carbon in a black mass. [The Lec- 
turer mixed the two together.] You see how the carbon is coming 
out, and before long we shall have a solid mass of charcoal, all of 
which has come out of sugar. Sugar, as you know, is food, and here 
we have absolutely a solid lump of carbon where you would not have 
expected it. And if I make arrangements so as to oxidize the carbon 
of sugar, we shall have a much more striking result. Here is sugar, 
and I have here an oxidizer — a quicker one than the atmosphere; 
and so we shall oxidize this fuel by a process different from respiration 
in its form, though not different in its kind. It is the combustion of 
the carbon by the contact of oxygen which the body has supplied to 
it. If I set this into action at once, you will see combustion produced. 
Just what occurs in my lungs — taking in oxygen from another source, 
namely, the atmosphere — takes place here by a more rapid process. 



856 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Kent. 

You will be astonished when I tell you what this curious play of 
carbon amounts to. A candle will burn some four, five, six, or seven 
hours. What then must be the daily amount of carbon going up 
into the air in the way of carbonic acid ! What a quantity of 
carbon must go from each of us in respiration ! What a won- 
derful change of carbon must take place under these circum- 
stances of combustion or respiration ! A ma-n in twenty-four 
hours converts as much as seven ounces of carbon into carbonic 
acid 3 a milch cow will convert seventy ounces, and a horse seventy- 
nine ounces, solely by the act of respiration. That is, the horse in 
twenty-four hours burns seventy-nine ounces of charcoal, or ca^rbon, 
in his organs of respiration, to supply his natural warmth in that time. 
All the warm-blooded animals get their warmth in this way, by the 
conversion of carbon, not in a free state, but in a state of combination. 
And what an extraordinary notion this gives us of the alterations 
going on in our atmosphere. As much as 5,000,000 pounds, or 548 
tons of carbonic acid is formed by respiration in London alone in 
twenty-four hours. And where does all this go ? Up into the air. 
If the carbon had been like the lead which I showed you, or the iron 
which, in burning, produces a solid substance, what would happen ? 
Combustion could not go on. As charcoal burns it becomes a vapour, 
and passes off into the atmosphere, which is the great vehicle, the 
great carrier for conveying it away to other places. Then what be- 
comes of it? Wonderful is it to find that the change produced by 
respiration, which seems so injurious to us (for we cannot breathe air 
twice over), is the very life and support of plants and vegetables that 
grow upon the surface of the earth. It is the same also under the 
surface, in the great bodies of watery for fishes and other animals 
respire upon the same principle, though not exactly by contact with 
the open air. — Lectures on the Chemistry of a Candle. 



335.— MILTON AT CRIPPLEGATE. 

[W. Charles Kent, 1823. 
[W. CiiAHLES Kent, poet, journalist, and barrister, was born in London, November 3, 
1823, and educated at Prior Park and Oscott Colleges. He adopted literature as a 
profession at an early age, and was called to the Bar of the Middle Temple in 1859. 
His poem " Aletheia " was published in 1850, and, in 1853, it elicited from M. de 
Lamartine a remarkable letter,* in which he expresses a wish that the poem 



* Paris, 7 Avrily 1853. 
Monsieur, — Un heureux hasard place sous mes yeux aujourd'hui seulement les 
magnifiques strophes (C /liclhcia, dans lesquelles vous avez encadre' mon nom. 

Combien je regrctte de ne les avoir pas connues plutot, et de vous avoir laisse 



Kent.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 857 

addressed to himself might form his epitaph. In 1862, " Dreamland " appeared. 
His prose works are: "Vision of Cagliostro," "Cabinet Pictures," under the nam 
de plume of Mark Rochester, " Catholicity in the Dark Ages," " Footprints on 
the Road," " Mr. Gladstone's Government," by a Templar, " Welcome to Long- 
fellow," in the Times, &c. &c. Mr. Kent is proprietor and editor of the Sun 
newspaper, and a contributor to "Blackwood's Magazine," "Westminster Review,'* 
" Household Words," &c. &c.] 

An atmosphere of golden harmonies 

Around him floating, fills the haunted room. 

Loved chamber, often hallowed thus at eve 

By consecrating sunbeams ! Ever then 

Thrilled through and through with grand concordant tones : 

Now swelling like an anthem — and anon 

In sighs of dulcet sadness dying down 

To murmurs hushed as echoes of a prayer. 

His frail white hands along the keys in love 

Stray slowly in long chords of mellow sound. 

His slippered feet/ alternately relaxed 

In pressure, draw betimes such lengthened notes 

From deepest diapason of the reeds. 

That, vibrating, the open casement jars 

Responding palpitations. On the sill 

A heliotrope, half-blackened into bud. 

Pales in its lilac flowering, whence in gusts 

The balmy breath of evening spreads abroad 

The honeyed fragrance lurking in its leaves. 

Enthroned before the soaring organ pipes. 

All bathed in crimson blushes of the west. 

The old Musician sings — his feeblest touch 

Waking the thunderous music latent there 

In serried tubes like tromps of gold : his voice 

Of silver sweetness thridding all the maze 

Of windino- strains melodious. 



croire ainsi que je manquais ou d'admiration ou de reconnaissance ! Je ne manque ni 
de I'un ni de I'autre en vous lisant, et je m'empresse de re'parer autant qu'il est en moi 
le tort du hasard. 

Aucun tableau des evenements de 1848 ne me place en scene devant la Posterite 
avec plus de faveur, et sous un jour plus resplendissant, c'est le jour de la Prevention et 
de la Poe'sie, mais la Poesie que j'ai tant aimee me devait un le'ger retour. EUe me 
le paye largement par vos mains. 

Je garde ces beaux vers comme une inscription un jour a mon tombeau. 

Si vous venez a Paris, songez que vous y trouverez un ami. 

Rue de I'Universite', 80. Ah>honse de Lamartine. 



8=8 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [Kent. 

From his lip. 
Like balm, the psalmody of Israel's king, 
In Hebrew streaming, floods his soul with joy; 
As though the solemn warbling Bird of Night 
Sang peace while every cadence of its song 
Dropp'd, manna-like, its life's own nutriment. 
And as the Nightingale, of russet plumage, sings. 
Alone in darkness sown with stars of God, 
So sings, 'mid shadows deeper than the night. 
Sown like the night with visions grand as stars. 
The Philomel of Ages. Clothed in grey 
(His robe a threadbare, homely garb of serge). 
He sits enraptured 'mid the choral clang; 
Sits breathing music from his mouth and hands : 
Hands — outspread, as if in benediction ! 

Mouth — whose gentlest sighs search space through trembling 
As, thrilled with awe, emotion, grief, and years^ 
Love wafts them e'en beyond the porch of heaven ! 

Upturned towards the instrument thus made 
The altar of thy worship. Seer and Bard ! 
With looks celestial as thy song, thy face 
Reflects eve's sacred radiance. From calm brows 
The hyacinthine ringlets parting — trailed 
Like Adam's in thy bloom (brown-gilded coils 
Luxuriant) — scant'ly now, and silvering, droop 
Dishevelled on thy shoulders. While those eyes — 
Seraphic eyes, whence gazed thy soul serene — 

Ah ! quenched their mournful beauty now, and blank 

As sculptured orbs in monumental stone: 

Of all their azure splendour quite bereft. 

As — dead, yet living — light in darkness drowned. 

Not now for them the ruddy sunset showers 

Its slant of swarming gold-dust by the fall 

Of faded silken curtains, erst as green 

As emerald of the meadow grass, when sight 

Was fainting out, while pangs of anguish lured 

Dim shades around, in presage of thy doom. 

Not now for thee those darkling lattice buds 

Purple to clustering blossoms : not for thee 

The reflex in the mirror on the wall 

Of this dear inner chamber — home of home — 



Kent.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 859 

With ripe harmonious colours mimick'd there j 

The old familiar patterns on the floor j 

Old books of studious boyhood ; fluted pomps 

Of tarnished gold cylindric, where aloft 

The glory of the darling organ rears 

The symbol of its resonance ; and beneath. 

Repeated in the shadowy disc — the soul 

And source of all those rolling melodies — 

Thyself! with saintly features and bowed frame. 

There softly chanting still the holy psalm. 

Eve's parting halo like an aureole 

Around thy shining hair 

When suddenly. 
As with a sob, thy plaintive lay of prayer 
Dies inarticulate : the commingling notes. 
Strewn by thy hands, resolving into one — 
One fading soon to silence ! While that verse. 
Last syllabled in tremulous tones, again 
Seems echoed back by memory : " Lord ! " 
It cries, " my heart is sad, strength spent, the light 
Hath left mine eyes"* — and falters then in tears. 
Meek tears, submissive, not repining. Eve, 
Sweet Novice, shorn of golden tresses, dons 
The darkening veil of twilight as a Nun 
That tells the stars for beads. Heaven's purple arch 
Her cloister, and the moon swung silvering there 
The sacred lamp lighting God's sanctuary. 
Half-veiled as yet in deepening folds, she beams 
The holy effluence of her presence round 
The sorrow-silenced chamber, where alone 
The blind old bard yet breathes dumb orisons. 
His heart-strings trembling with hushed music still. 
As thrill seolian chords inaudibly 
When warbling winds have flown. 

Thus anguish-torn, 
'Mid fluctuating sheen that long contends 
With glimmering portents of approaching night. 
Thus silently, 'mid rolling thunder thoughts. 
Unseeing, though with spirit gaze as keen 
As lightning glance of seraphim, thou sitt'st 



* Ps. xxxvii. V. 10. In the Latin Vulgate: Cor meim conturbatum est, dereliquit 
me virtus mea : et lumen oculorum meorum et ipsum non est mecum. 



86o THE EVERY-BAY BOOK [Wilberforce. 

Before that bailded throne of symphonies. 

Thyself a fragile instrument of strauis 

Immortal, that lono^ ases, ages hence. 

Though thou art dust, shall mourn from Earth to Heaven, 

With voice subhme, the doom of Paradise. 

— Dreamland, pp. 27-31. 



336.— THE EARLY AMERICAN CHURCH. 

[Bishop Wilberforce, 1805. 

[Samuel WiLBrRFORCE, son of the celebrated William Wilberforce, was born at 
Clapham in 1805. He received his education at Oriel College, Oxford, to which 
University he was nominated select preacher in 1837. In 1839 ^^ became Arch- 
deacon of Surrey, and Chaplain to the Prince Consort. In 1840 he was preferred to 
a Canonry at Winchester; in 1844 he became Sub-Almoner to the Queen; in 
1845, Dean of Westminster. In the same year he was made B.D. and D. D. of the 
University of Oxford, and nominated Bishop of that diocese, the office of Chan- 
cellor of the Order of the Garter accompanying that dignity. In 1847 ^^ was 
appointed Lord High Almoner to her Majesty. In 1869 he was translated to the See 
of Winchester. Bishop Wilberforce is the author of "The Life of William Wilber- 
force," "History of the Protestant Episcopal Church in America," Agathos and 
other Allegories, Sermons, Charges, &c. &c., and is one of the most distinguished 
prelates of the age.] 

The fate of the colony seemed to hang upon one man. In spite of 
the bitterest envy, the merits of Captain Smith raised him to supreme 
command ; and he alone was equal to the great emergencies of every 
day. His early life * had fitted hira for daring deeds. Trained in 
the war in which the Low Countries fought, for freedom and their 
faith, against the power of Spain, he had afterwards maintained the 
borders of Christendom against the Turks in Hungary. Being taken 
prisoner in a skirmish, he was sold into slavery • sent first to Constan- 
tinople, and thence, with a merciful intention, to the Crimea. Here, 
being sorely oppressed by those who were charged to protect him, he 
escaped after a desperate encounter with his guards, and passed on 
horseback through the skirts of Russia to his old Hungarian quarters. 
We find him next in northern Africa, whence he returned to England 
in time to cast himself into the current which was then sweeping the 
most daring spirits to the unknown regions of the New World. In 
the sufferings and dangers of this expedition his courage never failed. 
He made excursions amongst the neighbouring tribes of Indians ; he 
obtained supplies of food ; defeated hostile attacks j sunk, or threatened 
to sink, the barque in which the trembling handful of remaining colo- 



* Bancroft's "America/ 



Wilberforce.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 86i 

nists would otherwise have attempted a shameful and impossible return ; 
and was the great instrument of planting the English race in that 
reluctant but at length prolific soil. 

In all his trials he was supported by the zealous aid of the admirable 
Hunt, whose patient meekness disarmed all opposition, whilst his 
cheerful faith was a bright example to the colony. Amidst its severest 
sufferings, it is cheering to find the minister of Christ in that far land 
repeating those lessons by which his forerunners in the holy office had 
so often kept alive the first faint sparks of social life. With unwearied 
patience he maintained the sinking spirits of his flock by the mighty 
influence of Christian truth, of which he gave a bright example in his 
own active faith and cheerful patience. Thus when, in a fire which 
destroyed their rising town, " the good Mr. Hunt lost all his library, 
with everything else that he had, except the clothes on his back, yet 
no one ever heard him murmur or repine at it-"* He seems to have 
entered on the work as one which, in the language of the first royal 
charter, "may, by the providence of Almighty God, hereafter tend to 
the glory of His divine Majesty, in propagating the Christian religion 
to such people as yet live in darkness and miserable ignorance of the 
true knowledge and worship of God.'f When this good man died, 
we know not ; it is merely recorded that he left his bones in that land 
of England's after-inheritance. But amongst the earliest settlers his 
mantle fell on others of hke spirit. In the year 1610, after a period 
of the sorest famine, " remembered for many years by the name of 
THE STARVING TIME,"]}: the fcw whom huugcr and disease had spared 
resolved to quit for ever this unpropitious country. They embarked 
with all they had in four small vessels — " none dropped a tear, for 
none had enjoyed one day of happiness ;" and had already fallen down 
the river with the tide, when they descried the long-boat of Lord 
Delaware, who, with three ships, and a new commission, had arrived 
at that precise moment for their rescue. 

He carried back the fainting settlers to their abandoned town, and 
again took possession of the land with the offices of our holy faith. 
Hunt was no more ; but the new governor was happily attended by a 
chaplain j and his were the first services called for by Lord Delaware. 
" He cast anchor," says one of the new comers, " before James 
Towne, where we landed j and our much-grieved governor, first 
visiting the church, caused the bell to be rung j at which all such as 
were able to come forth of their houses repayred to church, which was 
neatly trimmed with the wild flowers of the country, where our minister. 



* Stith, b. ii. p. 59. t Hansard's State Papers, quoted in Hawkes's "Virginia," p. 19. 
X Stith, b. iii. p. 117 



862 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Wilberforce. 

Master Bucke, made a zealous and sorrowful prayer, finding all things 
so contrary to our expectations, and full of misery and misgovern- 
ment."* 

Bucke was fixed at James Town 5 and when, after a few years, the 
colony had so far taken root as to have spread itself into the neigh- 
bouring town of Henrico, he was joined by Mr. Whitaker (son of the 
celebrated Dr. W. Whitaker, master of St. John's College, Cambridge), 
who was established *Mn a handsome church,"t which, through the 
zeal of the settlers, was one of the first buildings raised. Whitaker 
was no unworthy successor of Hunt. By the saint-Jike Nicholas 
Ferrar, his contemporary, he was honoured with the title of " apostle 
of Virginia." "I hereby let all men know," writes W. Crashavv,| in 
3613, "that a scholar, a graduate, a preacher, well borne and friended 
in England 5 not in debt nor disgrace, but competently provided for, 
and liked and beloved where he lived 3 not in want, but (for a scholar, 
and as these days be) rich in possession, and more in possibility, of 
himself, without any persuasion (but God's and his own heart's), did 
voluntarily leave his warm nest, and, to the wonder of his kindred, and 
amazement of them that knew him, undertake this hard, but, in my 
judgment, heroicall resolution to go to Virginia, and helpe to beare 
the name of God unto the Gentiles." 

With the name of Whitaker is joined the romantic story of the first 
Indian convert, whom he baptized into the Church of Christ. Poco- 
hontas, the favourite daughter of Powhatan, the most powerful Indian 
chieftain of those parts, then a girl of twelve years old, saved from 
barbarous murder Captain Smith, the early hero of this colony, whilst 
a prisoner at her father's court. For years she remained the white 
man's constant friend and advocate ; and even dared to visit, on mo/e 
than one errand of mercy, the new settlement of James Town. After 
Captain Smith's removal from Virginia, Pocohontas was ensnared by 
treachery, and brought a prisoner to the English fort. But her capti- 
vity was turned into a blessing. She received the faith of Christ ; and 
was not only the first, but one of the most hopeful of the whole band 
of native converts. Her after-life was strange. She formed a marriage 
of mutual affection with an English settler of good birth j who, after 
a time, visited his native land, taking with him to its shores his Indian 
wife and child. She was received with due respect in England ; 
visited the English court (where her husband bore the frowns of thfc 
royal pedant James I. for having dared to intermarry with a princess)j 
and, after winning the goodwill of all, just on the eve of her return. 



* Purchas's " Pilgrims," b. ix. c. 6. f Hawkes's " Virginia," p. 28. 

f Quoted in Hawkes's " Virginia," p. 28. 



Milton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 863 

died at Gravesend, aged 22, in the faith of Jesus. "What would have 
been the emotions," well asks the ecclesiastical historian of Virginia, 
" of the devoted missionary, when he admitted Pocohontas to baptism, 
could he have foreseen that, after the lapse of more than two hundred 
years, the blood of this noble-hearted Indian maiden would be flowing 
in the veins of some of the most distinguished members of that Church, 
the foundations of which he was then laying."* 

But though thus happy in her early clergy, it must not be supposed 
that the infant Church of Virginia flourished without many a draw- 
back. The mass of those who dock to such a settlement will ever be, 
like David's followers in the desert, men of broken fortunes and ungo- 
verned habits : the bonds of society are loose j strong temptations 
abound ; and there will be much that must rebel not only against morals 
and religion, but even against civil rule. So it was in this case ; and 
to such a pitch, at one time, had this insubordination risen, that but 
for the governor's proclaiming martial law, the whole society had 
perished through internal strife. 

This code of law may still be seen ; and, as is implied in its title— 
" Lawes divine, morall, and martiall, for Virginia " — it enforced 
obedience to the faith of Christ, as the foundation of all relative obli- 
gations. There can be little doubt that, in that stage of society, these 
laws (the harsh penalties attached to which never were enforced) 
proved a great blessing to the colony, and prepared it for better days. 
— History of the Protestant Episcopal Church in America, pp. 24-29. 



337.— ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 

[Milton, 1608 — 1674. 

[A BIOGRAPHICAL noticc of ouf great poet will be found at page 147, where an extract 
from the "Paradise Lost" is given. Although it is by his poetry that Milton's; 
name survives, we think a short extract from his prose works will not be unwelcome 
to our readers ; therefore we give the following noble passages from his Appeal for 
the Liberty of the Press.] 

I DENY not but that it is of the greatest concernment in the church 
and commonwealth, to have a vigilant eye how books demean them- 
selves as well as men; and thereafter to confine, imprison, and do 
sharpest justice on them as malefactors; for books are not absolutely 
dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them, to be as active 
as that soul whose progeny they are j nay, they do preserve, as in a 
vial, the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred 
them. I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those 

* Dr. Hawkes's " Memorials of the Church in Virginia," p. 28. 



864 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Milton. 

fabulous dragon's teeth ; and being sown up and down, may chance to 
spring up armed men. And yet, on the other hand, unless wari- 
ness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book : who 
kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image 3 but he who 
destroys a good book kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it 
were, in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the earth -, but a 
good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and 
treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. 'Tis true no age can 
restore a life whereof perhaps there is no great loss ; and revolutions 
of ages do not oft recover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of 
which whole nations fare the worse. We should be wary, therefore, 
what persecution we raise against the living labours of public men, 
how spill that seasoned life of man, preserved and stored up in books j 
since we see a kind of homicide may be thus committed, sometimes a 
kind of martyrdom; and if it extended to the whole impression, a 
kind of massacre, whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an 
elemental life, but strikes at that ethereal and soft essence, the breath 

of reason itself, slays an immortality rather than a life. 

-X- -x- x- -x- * 

Good and evil, we know, in the field of this world grow up together 
almost inseparably;' and the knowledge of good is so involved and 
interwoven with the knowledge of evil, and in so many cunning 
resemblances hardly to be discerned, that those confused seeds which 
were imposed upon Psyche as ar .ncessant labour to cull out and sort 
asunder, were not more intermixed. It was from out the rind of one 
apple tasted, that the knowledge of good and evil, as two twins 
cleaving together leaped forth into the world. And perhaps this is 
that doom which Adam fell into of knowing good and evil, that is to 
say, of knowing good by evil. As therefore the state of man now is, 
what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear, 
without the knowledge of evil ? He that can apprehend and consider 
Vice, with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet 
distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is the true 
warfaring Cliristian. I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, 
unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adver- 
sary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be 
run for, not without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence 
into the world, we bring impurity much rather; that which purifies 
us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary. That virtue, therefore, 
which is but a youngling in the contemplation of evil, and knows not 
the utmost that vice promises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a 
blank virtue, not a pure ; which was the reason why our sage and 
serious poet Spenser (whom I dare be known to think a better teacher 



Milton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 865 

than Scotus or Aquinas), describing true temperance under the person 
of Guion, brings him in with his Palmer through the cave of Mammon 
and the bower of earthly bliss, that he might see and know, and yet 
abstain. Since, therefore, the knowledge and survey of vice is in this 
world so necessary to the constituting of human virtue, and the scan- 
ning of error to the confirmation of truth, how can we more safely, 
and with less danger, scout into the region of sin and falsity, than by 
reading all manner of tractates, and hearing all manner of reason ? 
* * -x- * -St -x- ^ 

Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the 
earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and 
prohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple^ 
who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter ? 
Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what 
praying there is for light and clear knowledge to be sent down among 
us, would think of other matters to be constituted beyond the disci- 
pline of Geneva, framed and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when 
the new light which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy 
and oppose, if it comes not first in at their casements. What a collu- 
sion is this, when as we are exhorted by the wise man to use diligence, 
"to seek for wisdom as for hidden treasures," early and late, that an- 
other order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by statute ! When 
a man hath been labouring the hardest labour in the deep mines of 
knowledge, hath furnished out his findings in all their equipage, drawn 
forth his reasons, as it were a battle ranged, scattered and defeated all 
objections in his way, calls out his adversary into the plain, offers him 
the advantage of wind and sun, if he please, only that he may try the 
matter by dint of argument — for his opponents then to skulk, to lay 
ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of licensing where the chal- 
lenger should pass, though it be valour enough in soldiership, is but 
weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For who knows not 
that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty ? She needs no policies, 
nor stratagems, nor licensings, to make her victorious j those are the 
shifts and the defences that error uses against her power ; give her but 
room, and do not bind her when she sleeps. — Milton s Prose Works. 

[This appeal of Milton was unsuccessful, and it was not till 1694 
that England was set free from the censors of the press.] 



3 ^ 



866 THE ErERY-DAY BOOK [Lover. 



338.— DIFFICULTIES IN BUYING A PRESENT. 

[Samuel Lover, 1797. 

[Samuel Lover was born in Dublin, 1797. His father v^ras a member of the Stock 
Exchange of that city. Lover first became known as an artist, and commenced 
life as a miniature painter. He was very successful, and took portraits of all the first 
people in Ireland. He removed to London in 1837, ^^'^ s^oon found profitable em- 
ployment both for his pen and pencil. Poet, painter, musician, dramatist, and 
novelist, and admirable in all, Mr. Lover is a very Crichton of literature. If he will 
be known to posterity chiefly by his Irish songs, if will be only because, like his 
great contemporary, Thomas Moore, it is into these he has put his heart and the 
force of his genius. For many years Mr. Lover gave readings from his own works 
with great success, and his merry, pleasant "evenings" will long be remembeiedby 
the older members of many of our literary institutions. It is pleasant to know that 
the Government has acknowledged his services to the country by a handsome pension 
from the Civil List.] 

*' Why, thin, I'll tell you," said Rory. "I promised my mother to 
bring a present to the priest from Dublin, and I could not make up 
my mind rightly what to get all the time I was there. I thought of a 
pair o' top-boots ; for, indeed, his reverence's is none of the best, and 
only you knoiv them to be top-boots, you would not take them to be 
top boots, bekase the bottoms has been put in so often that the tops is 
wore out intirely, and is no more like top-boots than my brogues. So 
I wint to a shop in Dublin, and picked out the purtiest pair o' top- 
boots I could see — whin I say purty, I don't mane a flourishin' 
taarin' pair, but sitch as was fit for a priest, a respectable pair o' boots j 
— and with that, I pulled out my good money to pay for thim, whin 
jist at that minit, remembering the thricks o' the town, I bethought o' 
myself, and says I, ' I suppose these are the right thing? ' says I to the 
man. — * You can thry them,' says he. — ' How can I thry them ? ' says 
J. — * Pull them on you,' says he. — ' Throth, an' I'd be sorry,' says I, 

* to take such a liberty with them,' says I. — 'Why, aren't you goin* to 
ware thim ?' says he. — ' Is it me ?' says I ; ' me ware top-boots ? Do 
you think it's takin' lave of my sinsis I am ?' says I. — * Then what do 
you want to buy them for?' says he. — 'For his reverence, Father 
Kinshela,' says I. * Are they the right sort for him ?' — * How should 
I know ?' says he. — ' You're a purty bootmaker,' says I, 'not to know 
how to make a priest's boot !' — * How do I know his size ?' says he. — 

* Oh, don't be comin' off that away,' says I. * There's no sitch great 
differ betune priests and other min !' " 

** I think you were very right there," said the pale traveller. 

"To be sure, sir," said Rory 3 "and it was only jist a come off for 
his own ignorance. — *Tell me his size,' says the fellow, * and I'll fit 
him.* — ' He's betune five and six fut,' says I. — * Most men are,' says 
he, laughin' at me. He was an impidint fellow. — * It's not the fivCj 



1 



Lover.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 867 

nor six, but his two feet I want to know the size of,' says he. So I 
persaived he was jeerin' me, and says I, * Why, thin, you respectful 
vagabone. o' the world, you Dublin jackeen ! do you mane to insinivate 
that Father Kinshela ever wint baretutted in his life, that I could know 
the size of his fut?' says I, and with that I threw the boots in his face. 
* Take that,' says I, 'you dirty thief o' the world! you impidint 
vagabone of the world ! you ignorant citizen o' the world !' And 
with that I left the place." * * * 

" It is their usual practice," said the traveller, " to take measure of 
their customers." 

*'Is it, thin?" 

** It really is." 

''See that, now!" said Rory, with an air of triumph. "You 
would think that they wor cleverer in the town than in the counthryj 
and they ought to be so, by all accounts} — but in the regard of what I 
towld you, you see, we're before them intirely." 

** How so ?" said the traveller. 

** Arrah ! bekase they never throuble people in the counthry at all 
with takin' their measure j but you jist go to a fair, and bring your fut 
along with you, and somebody else dhrives a cartful o' brogues into 
the place, and there you sarve yourself j and so the man gets his money 
and you get your shoes, and every one's plazed." * * * 

" But what I mane is — where did I lave off tellin' you about the 
present for the priest ? — wasn't it at the bootmaker's shop ? — ^yes, that 
was it. Well, sir, on laving the shop, as soon as I kera to myself 
afther the fellow's impidence, I begun to think what was the next best 
thing I could get for his reverence j and with that, while I was 
thinkin' about it, I seen a very respectable owld gintleman goin' by, 
with the most beautiful stick in his hand I ever set my eyes on, and 
a golden head to it that was worth its weight in gold ; and it gev him 
such an iligant look altogether, that says I to myself, * It's the very 
thing for Father Kinshela, if I could get sitch another.' And so I 
wint lookin' about me every shop I seen as I wint by, and at last, in a 
sthreet they call Dame-sthreet — and, by the same token, I didn't 
know why they called it Dame-sthreet till I ax'd^ and I was towld they 
called it Dame-sthreet bekase the ladies were so fond o' walkin' there ; 
— and lovely craythurs they wor! and I can't b'lieve that the town is 
such an onwholesome place to live in, for most o' the ladies I seen 
there had the most beautiful rosy cheeks I ever clapt my eyes upon — 
and the beautiful rowlin' eyes o' them ! Well, it was in Dame-sthreet, 
as I was sayin', that I kem to a shop where there was a power o' 
sticks, and so I wint in and looked at thimj and a man in the place 
kem to me and ax'd me if I wanted a cane? *No,' says I, *I don't 

3 K 2 



868 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lover. 

want a cane ; it's a stick I want/ says I. ' A cane, you mane,' says he. 
' No,' says I ; ' it's a stick ' — for I was determined to have no cane, but 
to stick to the stick. ' Here's a nate one,' says he. 'I don't want a 
nate one,' says I, ' but a responsible one,' says I. — ' Faith !' says he, * if 
an Irishman's stick was responsible, it would have a great dale to 
answer for' — and he laughed a power. I didn't know myself what 
he meant, but that's what he said." 

" It was because you asked for a responsible stick," said the 
traveller. 

'* And why wouldn't I," said Rory, "when it was for his reverence 
I wanted it r Why wouldn't he have a nice-lookin', respectable, 
responsible stick ?" 

*' Certainly," said the traveller. 

" Well, I picked out one that looked to my likin' — a good sub- 
stantial stick, with an ivory top to itj for I seen that the goold-headed 
ones was so dear I couldn't come up to them ; and so says 1, ' Give me 
a howld o' that,' says I, and I tuk a grip iv it. I never was so sur- 
prised in my life. I thought to get a good, brave handful of a solid 
stick, but, my dear, it was well it didn't fly out o' my hand a'most, it 
was so light. * Phew !' says I, ' what sort of a stick is this ?' * I tell 
you it's not a stick, but a cane,' says he. ' Faith ! I believe you,' says 
I. * You see how good and light it is,' says he. Think o' that, sir !—- 
to call a stick good and light — as if there could be any good in life in 
a stick that wasn't heavy, and could sthreck a good blow ! ' Is it jokin' 
you are?' says I. 'Don't you feel it yourself?' says he. 'Throth, I 
can hardly feel it at all,' says I. ' Sure that's the beauty of it,' says he. 
Think o' the ignorant vagabone ! — to call a stick a beauty that was as 
light a'most as a bulrush ! * And so you can hardly feel it !' says he, 
grinnin'. ' Yis, indeed,' says I ; ' and what's worse, I don't think I 
could make any one else feel it either.' ' Oh ! you want a stick to 
bate people with !' says he. 'To be sure,' says I ; ' sure that's the use 
of a stick.' ' To knock the sinsis out o' people !' says he, grinnin' 
again. * Sartinly,' says I, * if they're saucy ' — lookin' hard at him at 
the same time. 'Well, these is only walkin'-sticks,' says he. 
' Throth, you may say rz/wwi/z'-sticks,' says I, 'for you daren't stand 
before any one with sich a thraneen as that in your fist.' 'Well, pick 
out the heaviest o' them you plaze,' says he ; ' take your choice.' 
So I wint pokin' and rummagin' among thim, and, if you believe me, 
there wasn't a stick in their whole shop worth a kick in the shins-^ 
divil a one!" 

" But why did you require such a heavy stick for the priest ?" 

" Bekase there is not a man in the parish wants it more," says Rory, 

*'ls he so quarrelsome, then ?" said the traveller. 



Lover.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 869 

" No, but the greatest o' pacemakers/' says Rory. 

*' Then what does he want the heavy stick for ?" 

** For wallopin' his flock, to be sure," said Rory. 

"Walloping !" said the traveller, choking with laughter. 

"Oh! you may laugh," said Rory, *' but 'pon my sowl ! you 
wouldn't laugii if you wor under his hand, for he has a brave heavy 
one, God bless him and spare him to us !" 

" And what is all this walloping for?" 

"Vv^hy, sir, whin we have a bit of a fight, for fun, or the regular 
faction one, at the fair, his reverence sometimes hears of it, and comes 
av c )orse." 

" Good God !" said the traveller, in real astonishment, " does the 
priest join the battle ?" 

"No, no, no, sir! I see you're quite a sthranger in the counthry. 
The priest join it! — Oh! by no manes. But he comes and stops it; 
and, av coorse, the only way he can stop it is, to ride into thim, and 
wallop thim all round before him, and disparse thim — scatther thim 
like chaff before the wind 3 and it's the best o' sticks he requires for 
that same." 

" But might he not have his heavy stick for that purpose, and 
make use of a lighter one on other occasions ?" 

"As for that matther, sir," said Rory, "there's no knowin' the 
minit he might want it, for he is often necessiated to have recoorse to 
it. It might be going through the village, the public-house is too full, 
and in he goes and dhrives thim out. Oh ! it would delight your 
heart to see the style he clears a public-house in, in no time!" 

" But wouldn't his speaking to them answer the purpose as 
well ?" 

" Oh, no ! he doesn't like to throw away his discoorse on thim ; and 
why should he? — he keeps that for the blessed althar on Sunday, 
which is a fitter place for it : besides, he does not hke to be sevare on 
us." 

"Severe!" said the traveller, in surprise, "why, haven't you said 
that he thrashes you round on all occasions ?" 

" Yis, sir ; but what o' that ? — sure that's nothin' to his tongue : 
his words is like swoords or razhors, I may say : we're used to a lick of 
a stick every day, but not to sich language as his reverence sometimes 
murthers us with whin we displaze him. Oh ! it's terrible, so it is, to 
have the weight of his tongue on you 1 Throth ! Td rather let him bate 
me trom this till to-morrow, than have one angry word with him." 

"I see, then, he must have a heavy stick," said the traveller. 

"To be sure he must, sir, at all times j and that was the raison I 
was so particular in the shopj and afther spendin' over an hour — 



870 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Nicolas. 

would you b'lieve it ? — divil a stick I could get in the place fit for a 

child, much less a man." 

•X- -x- * * -x- * 

"You see," continued he, " I was so disgusted with them shop- 
keepers in Dublin, tiiat my heart was fairly broke with their ignorance, 
and I seen they knew nothin' at all about what I wanted, and so I 
came away without anything for his reverence." — Rory O' More, 



339.— BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 

[Sir Harris Nicolas, 1799— 1848. 

[Sir Harris Nicolas was born in Cornwall, in 1799. He entered the British Navy, 
but at the close of the great war with France he left it, studied the law, and was called 
to the Bar in 1825. As a lawyer he was chiefly employed on the Peerage cases which 
came before the House of Lords. He was a learned antiquarian and good writer; his 
works are both numerous and important. They are, chiefly, "The History of the 
Battle of Agincourt," a "Life of Chaucer," " Despatches and Letters of Lord Nelson," 
and twu volumes of the " History of the British Navy." He died before completing 
this last work. In 1831 he was created a Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic 
Order. Sir Harris died in 1848.] 

The venerable Sir Thomas Erpingham, a Knight of the Garter, and 
a soldier of the highest reputation, was ordered to array the archers 
and place them in front,* and he exhorted all in Henry's name to fight 
vigorously. Then, riding before the archers, he drew them up, and 
when this was done, threw his baton into the air, exclaiming, " Now 
strike !"t and was answ^ered by a loud cry.J after which he dis- 
mounted and placed himself in the King's battalion, who was also on 
foot opposite his men with his banner borne before him.§ 

It was now between ten and eleven in the forenoon, || and Henry 
finding that great part of the day had been wasted, and that the French 



* St. Remy, p. 92, who adds, " in two wings," but the Chronicler A. says the 
archers were drawn up in the form of a wedge, 

f Monstrelet says that the words were " Nestroque," which Dr. Meyrick considers 
to have been a corruption of " Now strike," an expression used by the marshal of an 
army after finishing his duty of arraying it for battle. 

X Monstrelet. § St. Remy, p. 92. 

II Des Ursins, p. 315, however states, in one account of the battle, that it began at 
8 A.M., and which is partially corroborated by the anonymous chronicler in the Cot- 
tonian MS., Claudius, A. viii. speaking of the hour of "prime;" but independently of 
the remark of the Chronicler A., that "a great part of the day had been spent in delay," 
it is obvious from every other writer, that it was after that hour when Henry com- 
menced the attack. Monstrelet expressly states that the French waited till between 
nine and ten; and some time evidently elapsed after that period before the English 
advanced Moreover, it is said that the battle lasted three hours, that Henry remained 
on the field for four hours afterwards, and that evening then began to close. * 



Nicolas.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 871 

would not approach, but were probably either waiting for reinforce^ 
ments, or expecting to oblige him to surrender from the want of pro- 
visions, resolved to commence the attack.* Having issued the command, 
*' Banners advance," t the soldiers immediately prostrated themselves 
on the ground, beseeching the protection of the Almighty, and each of 
them put a small piece of earth into his mouth,J in remembrance, as 
has been conjectured, that they were mortal, and formed of dust.§ 
They then marched towards the enemy in three lines,|| with great 
firmness and intrepidity, uttering repeated shouts, and with their 
trumpets sounding.^ 

The Constable on seeing them approach, after earnestly admonishing 
his men to confess their sins and to fight bravely,** ordered his advanced 
guard to march towards the English, which they did,tt crying " Mont- 
joye ! Montjoye !"t| 

The battle commenced by the English archers shooting their arrows 
as soon as they were within reach of the enemy, and much execution 
was done among them before the combatants closed. §§ The French 
cavalry, posted along the flanks, attacked the archers on each side^HH 
but the division commanded by Clignet de Brabant, Admiral of France, 
which consisted of eight hundred horse, and was intended to break 
through them, was reduced to about one hundred and fifty, who 
attempted it in vain, being compelled to retreat from the heavy volleys 
of arrows^^ Sir William de Saveuse, with three hundred men-at-arms 
likewise gallantly endeavoured to accomplish this object, but he was 
immediately killed : his followers were repulsed by the archers placing 



* Chronicler A., and Elmham, p. 64. 
t Titus Livius, p. 19, Cottonian MS.; Claudius, A. viii.; and Lyd-at- 
t Livius, p. 17, and Elmham, p. 65. Lydgate says, they "thries there\vssvd the 
grounde." ^ "■^ 

§ Karleian MS. p. 35. Dr. Lingard observes on this fact, which stands on the 
authority of Elmham and Livms, and which he has translated, "the men fallin'- o 
their knees, bit the ground."— " This singular custom had been introduced bv^the 
peasants of Flanders, before the great victory which they had gained over the French 
cavalry at Coutray, m 1302. A priest stood in front of the army, holdin- the conse 
crated host in his hand, and each man kneeling down, took a particle of^earth in his 
mouth, as a sign of his desire, and an acknowledgment of his unworthiness to receive 
the sacrament. Spond, II. 5i()."— History of England, ed. 1823, vol. v. p! 27 
II Titus Livius, p. 19. '* 

^ St. Remy, pp. 92, 93; Monstrelet; Elmham, p. 6; 
*=»•' St. Remy and Monstrelet. 
ft Chronicler A. ; Cottonian MS., Claudius, A. viii.; Elmham, p. 64- Labonrenr 
p. 1000; Note to Hardyng s C/j/-o«?c/e. **' ""'cui, 

+t Laboureur, p. 1009. 
§§ Monstrelet and St. Remy p. 93. „„ Chronicler A. 

^^ Monstrelet; St. Remy, p. 93; and Chronicler A. 



872 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Nicolas. 

their pointed stakes before them 3* and the horses being infuriated by 
wounds from the arrows, became unmanageable, great part of them, 
with their riders, roUing on the earth from pain, whilst the others fled 
at the utmost speed upon the van, threw it into confusion, and forced 
it back on some newly sown ground. f Of this fortunate circumstance 
Henry took instant advantage, by causing his men to advance upon 
them with the greatest celerity, at which moment the flanks of both 
armies immerged into the woods on each side. When the French 
advanced guard, who had boldly marched towards them under the 
great disadvantage of having the sun in their eyes, came near,:}: 
whether from the effect of the heavy discharges of arrows, which 
pierced through the sides and beavers of their basinets, or with the 
view of sooner penetrating the English lines, they suddenly formed 
themselves into three divisions, and charged with so much impetuosity 
in the three places where the banners stood, that for a short period the 
English gave way -, but, quickly rallying, they recovered their ground 
and repulsed their assailants with tremendous ]oss.§ The conflict was 
then very severe, and as soon as the English archers had exhausted 
their arrows, they threw aside their bows, and fought with over- 
whelming impetuosity with the swords, bills, lances, and hatchets, with 
which the field was covered, slaying all before them.|| A dreadful 
slaughter consequently took place in the van of the French army, and 
the assailants speedily reached the second Hne, which was posted in 
the rear of the first. For a time the English met with a spirited oppo- 
sition, but the confusion which produced the defeat of the van now 
extended to this division, and those immense numbers upon which 
they placed such reliance became the chief cause of their destruction- 
Standing upon soft ground and heavily armed, without sufficient room 
to move, they necessarily impeded each other j and being thus unable 
to offer any material resistance,^ they fell victims, as much to the 
unfortunate situation and circumstances in which they were placed, as 
to the valour of their enemies. When the French lines gave way, the 
Duke of Alengon mounted his horse with the hope of rallying the 
fugitives ; but finding it impossible, he returned to the scene of danger j 
and after performing prodigies of valour,** was slain whilst in personal 

* Chronicler A. ; Livius, p. 19; and St. Remy. 
t Monstrelct; Elmliam, p. 66; St. Remy, p. 93; and the Arundel MS, in the 
College of Arms, No. xlvii. f. aS.^**. Laboureur, p. 1009, says, they fled as if pursued 
by a tempest, carrying dismay to the main body. 

X Des Ursins, p. 310. § Chronicler A. 

II Chronicler A. ; St. Remy, p. 93; and Monstrelet. 
^ St. Remy, p. 93. 
** Arundel MS. No. xlvii. f. 239, "il fist tant d'armes et sy vaillaument que cestoit 
mervcille de regarder." 



Nicolas.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 873 

combat with the King of England. Duke Anthony of Brabant, whose 
anxiety to be present made him push forward with such rapidity that 
the greater part of his soldiers could not keep up with him, now joined 
the French. Finding that the battle had commenced he would not 
wait to equip himself, but seizing a banner which was attached to a 
trumpet, converted it into a surcoat of arms,* threw himself with a 
small body of followers into the thickest of the fight, and nobly 
endeavoured to resist the torrent j but he was speedily slain, and the 
fate of the second division was no longer doubtful. 

The rear, seeing what had befallen their companions, took to flight, 
leaving only the chief leaders on the field ;t and such of them as sur- 
vived were made prisoners. As a last effort, a gallant charge was made 
by the Counts of Marie and Fauquembergh at the head of about six 
hundred men-at-arms, whom with great difficulty they had kept firm, 
but without success, and they shared the fate of the bravest of their 
comrades. I 

An eye-witness§ says, though he is not candid enough to explain 
the reason, that there was no example in history of so fine a body of 
men having made so disorderly, so cowardly, or so unmanly a resistance j 
that they seemed seized with a panic ; that many noblemen surrendered 
themselves more than ten times during the day, but as no one had 
leisure to make prisoners of them, they were all pressed to the ground 
and put to death wnthout exception, either by those who had over- 
come, or by those who followed them.|| 

•X- -x- * * -x- * * 

Among the many instances of heroism which occurred during the 
battle, Henry's conduct was particularly distinguished ; and it is said 
that, even if he had been of the most inferior rank, the extraordinary 
valour which he displayed would have ensured to him greater renown 
than that of any other person.^ He fought on foot, and shared the 
dangers of the day in common with the humblest of his soldiers 5 but 
he more particularly signalized himself in preserving the life of his 
brother, the Duke of Gloucester.** That prince having been wounded 



* Monstrelet ; Elmham, p. 6^ j and St. Remy, p. 93. f Ibid. 

X Monstrelet.- § Chronicler A. || Ibid. 

% Elmham, p. 67. See also the encomium of Lydgate. 
** Livius, p. 20, and Elmham, p. 67. Monstrelet, however, says that it was f;ie 
Duke of York, and the Biographer of the Duke of Richmond, that it was the Duke of 
Clarence, whose life Henry thus preserved. The reasons for preferring the authority 
of Livius on this occasion are, first, that as he was specially patronized by the Duke of 
Gloucester, he is not likely to have been mistaken ; and secondly, that the Duke of 
York was most probably slain in another part of the field, as he commanded the van- 
guard, which was placed as a wing to the right of the main body. The Duke of 
Clarence was not present at the battle. 



874 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK 

in the bowels* with a dagger, and thrown senseless to the ground, by 
the Duke of Alencon and his followers, with his feet towards his 
enemies, the King rushed between his legs, and defended him until he 
was removed from the tield.f This generous act nearly cost him his 
life, for whilst he was stooping to raise his brother, Alen9on gave him 
a blow on his basinet which struck off a part of his crown. Being, 
however, soon surrounded by Henry's guards, Alen9on found himself 
in the utmost peril, and lifting up his arm, exclaimed, "I am the 
Duke of Alen9on, and I yield myself to you," but whilst the King 
was extending his hand to receive his pledge, the prince was slain. J 
St. Remy relates, that the blow which struck off part of Henry's 
crown was given by one of a body of eighteen knights, belonging to 
the retinue of the Lord of Croy, led by Brunelet de Mansinguehen and 
Ganiot de Bournonville, who had sworn that they would force them- 
selves sufficiently near to where the King of England fought to strike 
the royal diadem from his head, or that they would die in the attempt ; 
a vow which was literally fulfilled, for though one of them with his 
axe struck a point from his crown, they were all cut to pieces. § 

— History of the Battle of Agincourt, 



340.— DOWN THE AMAZONS. 

[Louis Agassiz. (About the beginning of the present century) 

[Louis Agassiz, a distinguished naturalist, was born in Switzerland about the beginning 
of the present century. For many years he was Professor of Natural History at 
Neufchatel. In 1847 he was invited to fill the same chair at Cambridge College, 
Massachusetts, U.S. His contributions as an author, to natural histoiy have been 
many and valuable. His chief works are "Natural History of the Freshwater 
Fishes of Europe," "Researches on Fossil Fishes," and " Studies of Glaciers." On 
the death of the late Professor Edward Forbes, he was offered the chair of Natural 
History in Edinburgh, but he refused it. In 1865 M. Agassiz visited Brazil, of which 
journey he and Mrs. Agassiz have published a highly interesting account.] 

I STARTED before daylight ; but as the dawn began to redden the sky, 
large flocks of ducks and of the small Amazonian goose might be seen 
flying towards the lakes. Here and there a cormorant sat alone on the 
branch of a dead tree, or a kingfisher poised himself over the water. 



* " In iliis," Livius. Elmham does not say in what part of the body, 
t Livius, p. 20. X Monstrelet, ed. 1595, p. 231. 

§ St. Remy, p. 89. The statement of the Biographer of the Count of Richmond, 
p. 2.';9, that two individuals were dressed to personate the King, both of whom were 
killed, is not supported by any other Chronicler, and is extremely improbable. If such 
a thing was done, it must have been with the view of diverting attaclis from the royal 
person. 



Agassiz.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 875 

watching for his prey. Numerous gulls were gathered in large com- 
panies on the trees along the river-shore -, alligators lay on its surface, 
diving with a sudden plash at the approach of our canoe, and occasion- 
ally a porpoise emerged from the water, showing himself for a moment 
and then disappearing again. Sometimes we started a herd of capivaras 
resting on the water's edge ; and once we saw a sloth sitting upon the 
branch of an Imbauba tree (Cecropia), rolled up in its peculiar attitude, 
the very picture of indolence, with its head sunk between its arms. Much 
of the river shore consisted of low alluvial land, and was covered with 
that peculiar and beautiful grass known as Capim ; this grass makes 
an excellent pasturage for cattle, and the abundance of it in this region 
renders the district of Monte AUegre very favourable for agricultural 
purposes. Here and there, where the red clay soil rose above the level 
of the water, a palm-thatched cabin stood on the low bluff, with a few 
trees about it. Such a house was usually the centre of a cattle farm, 
and large herds might be seen grazing in the adjoining fields. Along 
the river banks, where the country is chiefly open, with exten- 
sive low marshy grounds, the only palm to be seen is the Maraja (Geo- 
noma). After keeping along the Rio Gurupatuba for some distance, 
we turned to the right into a narrow stream, which has the character 
of an igarape in its lower course, though higher up it drains the country 
between the Serra of Erere and that of Tajury, and assumes the appear- 
ance of a small river : it is named after the Serra, and is known as the 
Rio Erere. This stream, narrow and picturesque, and often so over- 
grown with capim, that the canoe pursued its course with difficulty, 
passed through a magnificent forest of the beautiful fan-palm, called 
the Miriti (Mauritia flexuosa). This forest stretched for miles, over- 
shadowing, as a kind of underbrush, many smaller trees and innumera- 
ble shrubs, some of which bore bright, conspicuous flowers. It seemed 
to me a strange spectacle — a forest of monocotyledonous trees, with a 
dicotyledonous undergrowth ; the inferior plants thus towering above 
and sheltering the superior ones. Among the lower trees were many 
Leguminosae, one of the most striking, called Fava, having a colossal 
pod. The whole mass of vegetation was woven together by innume- 
rable lianas and creeping vines, in the midst of which the flowers of the 
Bignonia, v/ith its open trumpet-shaped corolla, were conspicuous. 
The capim was bright with the blossoms of the mallow growing in its 
midst, and was often edged with the broad-leaved Aninga, a large 
aquatic arum. 

Through such a forest, where the animal life was no less wild and 
varied than the vegetation, our boat glided for hours. The number 
and variety of the birds struck me with astonishment. The coarse, 
sedgy grasses on either side were full of water birds, one of the most 



876 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Sewell. 

common of which was a small chestnut-brown wading bird, the Ja^ana 
(Parra), whose toes are immeasurably long in proportion to its size, 
enabling it to run upon the surface of the aquatic vegetation as if it 
were sohd ground. It was now the month of January, their breeding 
season, and at every turn of the boat we started them up in pairs. 
Their flat, open nests generally contained five flesh-coloured eggs, 
streaked in zigzag with dark brown lines. The other waders were a 
snow-white heron, another ash-coloured, smaller species, and a large 
white stork. The ash-coloured herons were always in pairs ; the white 
ones always single, standing quiet and alone on the edge of the water, 
or half hidden in the green capim. The trees and bushes were full of 
small warbler-Uke birds, which it would be difficult to characterize 
separately. To the ordinary obsen^er they might seem like the small 
birds of our woods, but there was one species am.ong them which 
attracted my attention by its numbers, and also, because it builds the 
most extraordinary nest, considering the size of the bird itself, that 1 
have ever seen. It is known among the country people by two names, 
as the Pedreiro, or the Forneiro 3 both names referring, as will be seen, 
to the nature of its habitation. This singular nest is built of clay, and 
is as hard as stone (pedra), while it has the form of the round mandioca 
oven (forno), in which the country people prepare their farinha or 
flour, made from the mandioca root. It is about a foot in diameter, 
and stands edgewise upon a branch, or in the crotch of a tree. Among 
the smaller birds I noticed bright Tanagers, and also a species resem- 
bling the canary. — Journey in Brazil. 



341.— AUNT SARAH'S ADVICE. 

[Elizabeth Mary Sewei.l, 1812. 

[Elizabeth Mary Sewell, a writer who has done a great amount of good in her 
generation, was born in the Isle of Wight about the year 1812. Her tales for the 
young are of a very high order, and have had thousands of readers. They are 
"Amy Herbert," "Gertrude," "The Earl's Daughter," "The Experience of Life," 
" Laneton Parsonage," " Ursula," " Clive Hall," " Ivors, or the Two Cousins," 
" Katherine Ashton," " Margaret Percival," &c. She is also the author of " Night 
Lessons from Scripture," " Thoughts for the Holy Week," &c.] 

" All things in nature are compound j the air we breathe must have 
divers ga^es, in difl'erent proportions, in order to be wholesome; and 
so for the mind there must be variety in work, and variety in thought, 
if we wish to keep it in health, and give it a right view of comparative 
duties." — "I feel that myself often," I said; "I think about home 
troubles and the children's lessons till I seem to myself to have lost all 
sense of the larger afl'airs of life." — " And so the sense of proportion is 



Sewell.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. ' 877 

lost, and becomes faulty," said my aunt. "Therefore, Sally^ though 
your work may be one, don't let your thoughts be one. God has 
given you powers of study and reflection j don't let them go to sleep. 
Keep up with the days in which you live. You are better off than I 
ever was in the way of learning. Foreign tongues, which J never 
thought of knowing, are easy to you ; and there's more in the way of 
history in one corner of your brain than was ever to be found in all 
mine ; and these things are not to be thrown aside and called worldly, 
because, maybe, they treat of the things of the world. There's a 
spiritual meaning in all, if we set ourselves in earnest to discover it. 
It has been the will of God to throw the affairs of the world together, 
like the parts of a puzzle, but He has also given us the key of His 
Wisdom and Goodness to show what the whole is intended to be, and 
bestowed reason upon us to help us in putting the puzzle together ; and 
so, surely. He must intend that we should make use of that reason." 

*' I generally read, I am afraid, for amusement," I said. " When the 
children are gone I am too tired for study." — ''^There's no harm in 
reading for amusement in your case now/' said my aunt. " What I 
was thinking of more were the days when you might have leisure, and 
not be fit for active work, and then there's apt to come the thought to 
minds that don't turn willingly to common things, that there's no 
value in any learning but that which has to do directly with Heaven. 
I don't think that, Sally. Most especially I don't think so when I 
look upon the young who are springing up about us, and want our ex- 
perience for their guidance. There is a time indeed — such a time as 
this now present to me — when we stand upon the brink of the dark 
waters, and have but to live in sorrow for our past sins, and patient 
waiting till our change shall come j but there are many years before, 
in which we are used, not as the guides to accompany, but the sign- 
posts to point out the way to our fellow-creatures. How is that to be 
rightly done unless we know whither the way tends, and what it is 
which they who enter upon it would seek ? To direct others we 
must strive to live and think and feel with them ; and therefore it is 
that the books, and the stormy questions of religion, or politics, or 
morals, which are all-absorbing to the young, must not be forgotten by 
the old." 

*' Certainly," said I, " there is enough to do in the world if one 
only knew how to set about it." 

"Enough indeed," replied my aunt, with a sigh; "even if we had 
no power to teach and set example ; enough only in setting ourselves 
to pray for those who never pray for themselves — the wickedness of 
the world is an awful sight, Sally, when we stand, as it were, between 
it and the presence of God, and trust ourselves to look back upon it." — 



878 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Drayton. 

'^ Bat you have exerted yourself as much as you could. Aunt Sarah/' I 
said, ""to prevent and check it If I could hope to have done as much 
by the close of my life as you have, I should indeed be happy." 

** May God forgive me the sin of those good deeds, Sally," said my 
aunt, ** for if He shall be extreme to mark what is amiss in them, 
how may I abide it ? But I will give you, child, the few rules which 
are the result of these doings : Never be afraid of doing httle because 
you can't do much. Take the first duty that comes before you, and 
put your heart into it, and it will lead to a second. Persons who 
complain they can't find out claims of charity are for the most part 
those who pass over their duties at home, or if they try to perform 
them, do so with a heart dwelling upon the thought of something else. 
Try to put a new spirit into the old ways before you chalk out new 
ones ; if you don't, you give offence, and what you build up with one 
hand you pull down with the other. Never let your conscience be 
troubled with the claims of duties that don't belong to you. When 
one knocks at your door, give it admittance, and ask its business ; if 
you ought to attend to it, fix your time, your method to it at once 3 
but if not, send it away 3 don't let it stand troubling and disturbing 
you, and taking the spirit out of your other duties. A. great part of 
the humours which make famihes of good folks unhappy arise from 
the unsettled duties which throng around them, and which no one has 
been at the pains to decide ought, or ought not, to be attended to. 
And most especially, Sally, don't thrust yourself, or let others thrust 
you, where you have no concern. Don't try to be a man when you 
are only a woman 5 and don't set up to preach when you are only 
called upon to practise." — Experience of Life, chap. xli. 



342.— THE CAMBRO-BRITON'S BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 

[Michael Drayton, 1563 — 1631. 

[Michael Drayton was born at Hartshill, Warwickshire, 1563, and was educated at 
Oxford, but never took a degree. In 1593 he published a collection of pastorals, 
entitled "The Shepherd's Garland," which was followed by his poems, "The 
Barons' Wars," and " England's Heroical Epistles." The " Barons' Wars" contain 
passages of great beauty. In 1613 he published his "Poly-Olbion," or a description 
of England, to which Selden wrote notes. This is his great work, "exhibiting at 
once the learning of a historian, an antiquary, a naturali t, and a geographer," 
besides being embellished with ;he imagination of a poet. His works were reprinted 
in 1 753» in ten vols. Drayton died in 1631, and is buried in Westminster Abbey.] 

Fair stood the wind for France, 

When we our sails advance. 

Nor now to prove our chance. 
Longer will tarry ; 



Drayton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 879 

But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train. 
Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnish'd in warlike sort, 
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt, 

In happy hour ; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopp'd his way. 
Where the French gen'ral lay. 

With all his power. 

Which in his height of pride. 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide. 

To the King sending : 
Which he neglects the while. 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet with an angry smile. 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men. 
Quoth our brave Henry then. 
Though they to one be ten. 

Be not amazed : 
Yet have we well begun. 
Battles so bravely won, 
Have ever to the sun, 

By Fame been raised. 

And for myself (quoth he) 
This my full rest shall be, 
England ne'er mourn for me. 

Nor more esteem me: 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain. 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poictiers and Cressy tell, 
When most their pride did swell. 
Under our swords they fell. 
No less our skill is : 



88o THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Drayton. 

Than when our Grandsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat, 

Lopp'd the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread. 
The eager vanward led ; 
With the main Henry sped," 

Amongst his henchmen j 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there, 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone. 
Armour on armour shone. 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make. 
The very earth did shake. 
Trumpet to trumpet spake. 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim. 

To our hid forces -, 
When from a meadow by. 
Like a storm suddenly. 
The English archery 

Stuck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong. 
Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
That like to serpents stung, 

Piercing the weather j 
None from his fellow starts. 
But playing manly parts. 
And like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw. 
And forth their bilbows drew. 
And on the French they flew. 
Not one was tardy ; 



Drayton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 88 1 

Arms were from shoulders sent. 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went. 
Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble King, 
His broad sword brandishing-, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it ; 
And many a deep wound lent. 
His arms with blood besprent. 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Glou'ster, that Duke so good. 
Next to the royal blood. 
For famous England stood. 

With his brave brother j 
Clarence, in steel so bright. 
Though but a maiden knight. 
Yet in that furious fight. 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade. 
And cruel slaughter made. 

Still as they ran up j 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray. 
Which fame did not delay. 
To England to carry ; 
O, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again. 
Such a King Harry ! 

— Poems. 



882 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tomline. 



343.— ON THE INSPIRATION OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

[Bishop Tomline, 1750 — 1827. 

[Dr. George Tomline, Bishop of Winchester, w'bs born at Bury St. Edmunds, 
Suffolk, in 1750. He was educated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, of which college he 
was elected Fellow in 1773. In 1782 he became private secretary to Mr. Pitt, 
then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and continued to occupy the same post when his 
chief became Prime Minister. In 1787 he was consec^-ated Bishop of Lincoln, 
which see he held for more than thirtj-two years, refusing in the interim the 
bishopric of London. In 1820 he was translated to Winchester. The Bishop's 
original name w^s Pretj'man, but he assumed that of Tomline on succeeding to the 
estates of Marmaduke Tomline, of Rigby Grove, Lincolnshire. Dr. Tomline's 
works are, " The Elements of Christian Theologj^" " A Refutation of Calvinism," 
and " Memoirs of Mr. Pitt." He died in 1827.] 

When it is said that Scripture is divinely inspired, it is not to be 
understood that God suggested every word, or dictated every expression. 
It appears fronn the ditferent styles in which the books are written, 
and from the different manner in which the same events are related 
and predicted by different authors, that the sacred penmen were per- 
mitted to write as their several tempers, understandings, and habits of 
life, directed 3 and that the knowledge communicated to them by 
inspiration upon the subject of their writings was applied in the same 
manner as any knowledge acquired by ordinary means. Nor is it to 
be supposed that they were even thus inspired in every fact which 
they related, or in every precept which they delivered. They were left 
to the common use of their faculties, and did not upon every occasion 
stand in need of supernatural communication j but whenever, and as 
far as, divine assistance was necessary, it was always afforded. In 
different parts of Scripture we perceive that there v^^ere different sorts 
and degrees of inspiration : God enabled Moses to give an account of 
the creation of the world ; he enabled Joshua to record with exact- 
ness the settlement of the Israelites in the land of Canaan ; he enabled 
David to mingle'prophetic information with the varied effusions of 
gratitude, contrition, and piety J he enabled Solomon to deliver wise 
instructions for the regulation of human life; he enabled Isaiah to 
deliver predictions concerning the future Saviour of mankind, and 
Ezra to collect the sacred Scriptures into one authentic volume; "but 
all these worketh that one and the self-same Spirit, dividing to every 
man severally as he will."* In some cases inspiration only produced 
correctness and accuracy in relating past occurrences, or in reciting 
the words of others ; in other cases it communicated ideas not only 
new and unknown before, but infinitely beyond the reach of unassisted 



I Cor. c. 12, V. II. 



Tomline.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. ^^-^ 

human intellect j and sometimes inspired prophets delivered predictions 
for the use of fnture ages, which they did not themselves comprehend, 
and which cannot be fully understood till they are accomplished. But 
whatever distinctions we may make with respect to the sorts, degrees, 
or modes of inspiration, we may rest assured that there is one pro- 
perty which belongs to every inspired writing, namely, that it is free 
from error. I mean material error ; and this property must be 
considered as extending to the whole of each of those writings, of 
w^hich a part only is inspired ; for we cannot suppose that God would 
sutfer any such errors, as might tend to mislead our faith or pervert 
our practice, to be mixed with those truths which He Himself has 
mercifully revealed to His rational creatures as the means of their 
eternal salvation. In this restricted sense it may be asserted, that the 
sacred writers always wrote under the influence, or guidance, or care 
of the Holy Spirit, which sufficiently establishes the truth and divine 
authority of all Scripture. 

These observations relative to the nature of inspiration are particu- 
larly applicable to the historical books of the Old Testament. That 
the authors of these books were occasionally inspired is certain, since 
they frequently display an acquaintance wnth the counsels and designs 
of God, and often reveal his future dispensations in the clearest 
predictions. But though it is evident that the sacred historians 
sometimes wrote under the immediate operation of the Holy Spirit, it 
does not follow that they derived from revelation the knowledge of 
those things, which might be collected from the common sources of 
human intelligence. It is sufficient to believe, that by the general 
superintendence of the Holy Spirit, they were directed in the choice 
of their materials, enlightened to judge of the truth and importance 
of those accounts from which they borrowed their information, and 
prevented from registering any material error. The historical books 
appear, indeed, from internal evidence, to have been chiefly written 
by persons contemporary with the periods to which they relate ; who, 
in their description of characters and events, many of which they 
witnessed, uniformly exliibit a strict sincerity of intention, and an 
unexampled impartiality. Some of these books, however, were com- 
piled in subsequent times from the sacred annals mentioned in Scrip- 
ture as written by prophets or seers, and from those public records, 
and other authentic documents, w^hich, though written by uninspired 
men, were held in high estimation, and preserved with great care by 
persons specially appointed as keepers of the genealogies and public 
archives of the Jewish nation. To such well-known chronicles we 
find the sacred writers not nnfrequently referring for a more minute 
detail of those circumstances which they omit as inconsistent with 

3 L 2 



THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tomline. 



their design. For " these books are to be considered as the histories 
of revelations, as commentaries upon the prophecies, and as affording 
a lively sketch of the economy of God's government of his selected 
people. They were not designed as national annals, to record every 
minute particular and political event that occurred j but they are 
rather a compendious selection of such remarkable occurrences and 
operations as were best calculated to illustrate the religion of the 
Hebrew nation j to set before that perverse and ungrateful people an 
abstract of God's proceedings, of their interests and duties j as also to 
furnish posterity with an instructive picture of the divine attributes, 
and with a model of that dispensation on which a nobler and more 
spiritual government was to be erected j and moreover, to place before 
mankind the melancholy proofs of that corruption, which had been 
entailed upon them, and to exhibit in the depravity of a nation highly 
favoured, miraculously governed, and instructed by inspired teachers, 
the necessity of that redemption and renewal of righteousness, which 
was so early and so repeatedly promised by the prophets. It seems 
probable, therefore, that the books of Kings and Chronicles do not 
contain a complete compilation of the entire works of each contempo- 
rary prophet, but are rather an abridgment of their several labours, 
and of other authentic public writings, digested by Ezra after the 
Captivity, with an intention to display the sacred history under one 
point of view ^ and hence it is that they contain seme expressions, 
which evidently result from contemporary description, and others 
which as clearly argue them to have been composed long after the 
occurrences which they relate,"* 

Since then we are taught to consider the divine assistance as ever 
proportioned to the real wants of men ; and since it must be granted 
that their natural faculties, though wholly incompetent to the pre- 
diction of future events, are adequate to the relation of such past 
occurrences as have fallen within the sphere of their own observation, 
we may infer that the historical books are not written with the same 
uniform inspiration which illumines every page of the prophetic 
writings. But at the same time we are to believe that God vouch- 
safed to guard these registers of his judgments and his mercies from 
all important mistakes 3 and to impart, by supernatural means, as 
much information and assistance to those who composed them as was 
requisite for the accomplishment of the great designs of his providence. 
In the ancient Hebrew canon they were placed, as has been already 
observed, in the class of prophetical books ; they are cited as such by 
the evangelical writers j and it must surely be considered as a strong 



* Gray. 



Palgrave.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 885 

testimony to the constant opinion of the Jews respecting the inspi- 
ration of these books, that they have never dared to annex any 
historical narrative to them since the death of 'Malachi. They closed 
the sacred volume when the succession of prophets ceased. 

Tf it be asked by what rule we are to distinguish the inspired from 
the uninspired parts of these books, I answer, that no general rule can 
be prescribed for that purpose. Nor is it necessary that we should 
be able to make any such discrimination. It is enough for us to know 
that every writer of the Old Testament was inspired, and that the 
whole of the history it contains, without any exception or reserve, is 
true. These points being ascertained and allowed, it is of very little 
consequence whether the knowledge of a particular fact was obtained 
by any of the ordinary modes of information, or whether it was 
communicated by immediate revelation from God ; whether any 
particular passage was written by the natural powers of the historian, 
or whether it was written by the positive suggestion of the Holy 
Spirit. — Elements of Christian Theology. 



344.— ON THE GENIUS OF SCOTT. 

[Francis Turner Palgrave, 1824. 

[Francis Turner Palgrave, eldest son of the late Sir Francis Palgrave, was born 
September 28, 1824. He was educated at the Charter-house, and at Balliol College, 
Oxford, of which he was Scholar, and where he took his degree of M.A., and was 
elected to a Fellowship in Exeter College. He was for some years Vice-Principal of 
the Training College for Schoolmasters, at Kneller Hall; afterwards he held a post 
in the educational department of the Privy Council, and for some years was private 
secretary to Earl Granville. He has written, "Idylls and Songs," 1854, "Essays on 
Art," and a " Life of Sir Walter Scott," prefixed to the Globe Edition of his poems 
(Macmillan). Mr. Palgrave edited the "Golden Treasury of English Songs," and 
the Art Catalogue of the Great Exhibition of 1862. He is a contributor to 
" Macmillan's Magazine," &c.] 

Take even the feeblest of the " Waverley Novels," wdien shall w^e see 
the like again, in this style of romance ? — Goethe was accustomed to 
speak of Scott as the *' greatest writer of his time," as unique and un- 
equalled. When asked to put his views on paper, he replied with the 
remark, which he made also upon Shakspeare, Scott's art was so high, 
that it was hard to attempt giving a formal opinion on it. But a few 
words may be added on the relation borne by the Novels to the 
author's character. Putting aside those written in depressed spirits and 
failing health, the inequality of merit in the remainder appears almost 
exactly proportioned, not to their date, but to the degree in which they 
are founded on Scottish life during the century preceding 1771. In 
this leading characteristic they are the absolute reproduction of the 



886 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Palgrave. 

writer's own habitual thoughts and interests. Once more, we find in 
them a practical compromise between past and present. We have had 
no writer whose own country was more completely his inspiration. 
But he is inspired by the " ain countree " he had seen, or heard of 
from those who were old during his youth. As he recedes from 
Scotland and from ""sixty years since," his strength progressively de- 
clines. What we see as the series advances, are' not so much signs 
that he had exhausted himself, as symptoms that he had exhausted the 
great situations of the century before his own birth ; and " St. Ronan's 
Well " remains the solitary proof that, had events encouraged Scott to 
throw himself frankly into contemporary hfe, he might (in the writer's 
judgment) have been first of the English novelists here, as he indis- 
putably is in the romance of the past. 

It has been observed that one of the curious contrasts which make 
up that complex creature, Walter Scott, is the strong attraction which 
drew him, as a Lowlander the born natural antagonist of the Gael, to 
the Highland people. Looking back on the Celtic clans as we happily 
may, as a thing of the far past, softened by distance, coloured by the 
finest tints of poetry, and with that background of noble scenery 
which has afforded to many of us such pure and lofty pleasure, we 
cannot conceive without a painful effort that within a few years of 
Scott's own birth the Highlander had been to the Lowlander much 
what the Hindoo — the Afghan or Mahratta at least — is at present to 
the Englishman. All that we admire in the Gael had been to the 
Scot proper the source of contempt and of repugnance. Such a feeling 
is one of the worst instincts of human nature ; it is an unmistakeable 
part of the brute animal within us -, more than any other cause, the 
hatred of race to race has hampered the progress of man. There is 
also no feeling which is more persistent and obstinate. But it has 
been entirely conquered in the case of the Saxon and the Gael. Now 
this vast and salutary change in national opinion is directly due to Scott. 
Something of the kind might possibly have come with timej but he, 
in fact, was the man whose lot was to accomplish it. This may be 
regarded, on the whole, as his greatest achievement. He united the 
sympathies of two hostile races by the sheer force of genius. He 
healed the bitterness of centuries. Scott did much in idealizing, as 
poetry should, the common life of his contemporaries. He equally 
did much in rendering the past history, and the history of other 
countries in which Scotchmen played a conspicuous part, real to us. 
But it is hardly a figure of speech to say, that he created the Celtic 
Highlands in the eyes of the whole civilized world. 

If this be not first-rate power, it may be asked where we are to find 
it. The admirable spirit and picturesqueness of Scott's poems and 



Yonge.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 887 

novels carry us along with them so rapidly, whilst at the same time 
the weaknesses and inequalities of his work are so borne upon the 
surface, that we do not always feel how unique they are in literature. 
Scott is often inaccurate in historical painting, and puts modern feeling 
into the past. He was not called upon, as we have noticed, to re- 
present mental struggles, but the element of original thought is de- 
ficient in his creations. " Scott's," says an able critic, ''is a healthy 
and genial world of reflection, but it wants the charm of delicate 
exactitude j we miss the consecrating power" {National Review, 
April, 1858.) He is altogether inferior to Miss Austen in describing 
the finer elements of the womanly nature ; we rarely know how the 
heroine feels j the author paints love powerfully in its eifects and its 
dominating influence j he does not lead us to " the inmost enchanted 
fountain" of the heart. In creating types of actual human life Scott 
is perhaps surpassed by Crabbe ; he does not analyse character, or 
delineate it in its depths, but exhibits the man rather by speech and 
action J he is ''extensive" rather than " intensive j" has more of 
Chaucer in him than of Goethe ; yet, if we look at the variety and 
richness of his gallery, at his comm.and over pathos and terror, the 
laughter and the tears, at the many large interests beside those of 
romance which he realizes to us, at the way in which he paints the 
whole life of men, not their humours or passions alone, at his unfailing 
wholesomeness and freshness, like the sea and air and great elementary 
forces of Nature, it may be pronounced a just estimate which — 
without trying to measure the space which separates these stars — 
places Scott second in our creative or imaginative literature to Shak- 
speare. "All is great in the Waverley Novels," said Goethe, in 183 1, 
" material, effect, characters, execution." Astronomers tell us that 
there are no fixed points in the heavens, and that earth and sun 
momentarily shift their bearings. An analogous displacement may 
be preparing for the loftiest glories of the human intellect 3 Homer 
may become dim, and Shakspeare too distant. Perhaps the same 
fate is destined for Scott. But it would be idle to speculate on this, 
or try to predict the time when men will no longer be impressed by 
the vividness of "Waverley," or the pathos of " Lammermoor." — 
Memoir of Sir Walter Scott. Globe Edition of his Poems. 



345.— BERENGER DE RIBAUMONT FINDS HIS CHILD AND WIFE 
IN THE BESIEGED HUGUENOT FORTRESS. 

[Author of "The Heir of Redclyffe." 
[Miss C. M. Yonge is the only daughter of the late William Crawley Yonge, Esq., 
of Otterbourne, Hants, of the 52nd Foot, and a magistrate for Hampshire. She is 



888 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Yonge. 

one of the first and most popular authors of the age, both as a novelist and writer for 
the young. Her chief works are, " The Heir of RedclyflTe," " Heartsease," " Daisy 
Chain," "The Trial; or. More Links of the Daisy Chain,*' " The Young Step- 
mother," " Hopes and Fears," " The Clever Woman of the Family," " Dove in the 
Eagle's Nest," " The Chaplet of Pearls," " Lances of Lynwood," " Little Duke," 
"Countess Kate," "Landmarks of History," "Cnristian Names; their History and 
Derivation," " The Pupils of St. John the Divine," &c. &c. Miss Yonge edits the 
" Monthly Packet," an excellent magazine for the younger members of the Church 
of England, and is the chief contributor to the " Magazine for the Young" (Mozley). 
She is a writer in " Macmillan's Magazine," and many other first-class periodicals.] 

Berenger having just been told by the old sergeant that probably all 
would be quiet for some time longer, and been almost laughed at by 
the veteran for consulting him whether it would be permissible for 
him to be absent for a few minutes to visit his brother j was setting 
out across the bridge for the purpose, his eyes in the direction of the 
rampart, which followed the curve of the river. The paths which — 
as has been said — the feet of the washerwomen and drawers of water 
had worn away in quieter times, had been smoothed and scarped 
away on the outer side, so as to come to an abrupt termination some 
feet above the gay marigolds, coltsfoot, and other spring flowers that 
smiled by the water side. Suddenly he beheld on the rampart a tiny 
grey and white figure, fearlessly trotting, or rather dancing along the 
summit, and the men around him exclaimed, "The little moonbeam 
child ! " *^ A fairy — a changeling ! " — "They cannot shoot at such 
a babe !" " Nor could they harm her !" *' Hola ! little one ! Gare ! 
go back to your mother!" "Do not disturb yourself, sirj she is 
safer than you," were the ejaculations almost at the same moment, 
while he sprang forward, horrified at the peril of such an infant. He 
had reached the angle between the bridge and rampart when he per- 
ceived that neither humanity nor superstition were protecting the poor 
child ', for, as she turned down the remnant of one of the treacherous 
little paths, a man in bright steel and deep black had spurred his horse 
to the river's brink, and was deliberately taking aim at her. Furious 
at such brutality, Berenger fired the pistol he held in his hand, and 
the wretch dropped from his horse, but at the same moment his pistol 
exploded, and the child rolled down the bank, whence a piteous wail 
came up, impelling Berenger to leap down to her assistance, in the full 
face of the enemy. Perhaps he was protected for the moment by the 
confusion ensuing on the fall of the officer 3 and when he reached the 
bottom of the bank, he saw the little creature on her feet, her round 
cap and grey woollen dress stripped half off in the fall, and her flaxen 
hair falling round her plump, white, exposed shoulders, but evidently 
nnhurt, and gathering yellow marigolds as composedly as though she 
had been making May garlands. He snatched her up, and she said, 



Yonge.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 889 

with the same infantine dignity, ''Yes, take me up j the naughty- 
people spoilt the path. But I must take my beads first." And she 
tried to struggle out of his arms, pointing therewith to a broken 
string among the marshy herbage on which gleamed — the pearls of 
Ribaumont ! 

In the few seconds in which he grasped them, and then bore the 
child up the embankment in desperate bounds, a hail of bullets poured 
round him, ringing on his breastplate, shearing the plume from his 
hat, but scarcely even heard 3 and in another moment he had sprung 
down, on the inner side, grasping the child with all his might, but not 
daring even to look at her, in the wondrous flash of that first convic- 
tion. She spoke first. "Put me down, and let me have my beads," 
she said, in a grave, clear tone j and then first he beheld a pair of dark 
blue eyes, a sweet wild-rose face — Dolly's all over. He pressed her 
so fast and so close, in so speechless and overpowering an ecstasy, that 
again she repeated, and in alarm, " Put me down ; I want my mother ! " 

" Yes, yes! your mother! your mother ! your mother ! " he cried, 
unable to let her out of his embrace ; and then restraining himself as 
he saw her frightened eyes, in absolute fear of her spurning him, or 
struggling from him, " My sweet ! my child ! Ah ! do you not know 
me ? " Then, remembering how wild this was, he struggled to speak 
calmly : "What are you called, my treasure ? " 

"I am la petite Rayonette,'' she said, with puzzled dignity and 
gravity ; " and my mother says I have a beautiful long name of my 
own besides." 

" Berangere — my Berangere — " 

" That is what she says over me, as I go to sleep in her bosom at 
night," said the child, in a wondering voice, soon exchanged for 
entreaty, " O, hug me not so hard. O, let me go. Let me go to her. 
Mother ! mother ! " 

" My child, mine own, I am taking thee ! — Oh, do not struggle 
with me," he cried, himself imploring now. " Child, one kiss for thy 
father 3" and meantime, putting absolute force on his vehement 
affection, he was hurrying to the chancel. 

There Philip hailed them with a shout of desperate anxiety relieved ; 
but before a word could be uttered, down the stairs flew the Lady of 
Hope, crying, wildly, " Not there — she is not — " but perceiving the 
little one in the stranger's arms, she held out her own, crying, " Ah I 
is she hurt, my angel ? " 

" Unhurt, Eustacie ! Our child is unhurt ! " Berenger said, with 
an agonized endeavour to be calm 3 but for the moment her instinct 
was so entirely absorbed in examining into the soundness of her child's 
limbs, that she neither saw nor heard anything else. 



890 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Merivale. 

" Eustacie," he said, laying his hand on her arm. She started back, 
with bewildered eyes. " Eustacie — wife ! do you not know me ? 
Ah! I forgot that I am changed." 

"You — you — " she gasped, utterly confounded, and gazing as if 
turned to stone, and though at that moment the vibration of a mighty 
discharge of cannon rocked the walls, and strewed Philip's bed with 
the crimson shivers of St. John's robe, yet neither of them would have 
been sensible of it had not Humfrey rushed in at the same moment, 
crying, " They are coming on like fiends, sir." • 

Berenger passed his hand over his face. " You will know me when 
— if I return, my dearest," he said. "If not, then still thank God! 
Philip, to you I trust them ! " 

And with one kiss on that still, cold, almost petrified brow, he had 
dashed away. — The Chapht of Pearls ; or, the TVhite and Black Rihau- 
mont. "Macmillan's Magazine " for December, 1868. 



346.— AUGUSTUS CiESAR. 

[Rev. Charles Merivale, Dean of Ely, 1808. 

[The Rev. Charles Merivale, son of the late John Merivale, was born in 1808, and 
educated at Harrow, Haileybury, and St. John's College, Cambridge, of which he 
was successively Scholar, Fellow, and Tutor. He was Hulsean Lecturer in 1861, 
and Boyle Lecturer in 1864 and 1865. He is the author of a " History of Rome 
under the Emperors," 1850 — 1862. He was Rector of Lawford, Essex ; Chaplain to 
the Speaker of the House of Commons; and was made Dean of Ely in 1869.] 

In stature Augustus hardly exceeded the middle height, but his 
person was lightly and delicately formed, and its proportions were such 
as to convey a favourable and even a striking impression.* His counte- 
nance was pale, and testified to the weakness of his health, and almost 
constant bodily sufferings but the hardships of military service had im- 
parted a swarthy tinge to a complexion naturally fair, and his eyebrows 
meeting over a sharp and aquiline nose gave a serious and stern expres- 
sion to his countenance. t His hair was light, and his eyes blue and 
piercings he was well pleased if any one on approaching him looked 
on the ground and affected to be unable to meet their dazzling bright- 
ness.! It was said that his dress concealed many imperfections and 
blemishes on his person ; but he could not disguise all the infirmities 



* Drumann. Gesch. Roms. iv. 286. Suet. Oct. 79. f Ibid. Jul. Caes. 
X Suet. ibid. Plin. H. N. xi. 32. Aur. Vict. 1. Virg. ^n. viii. 680 : 
" Geminas cui tempora flammas 
Laeta vomunt." 



Merivale.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 891 

under which he laboured : the weakness of the forefinger of his right 
hand and a lameness in the left hip were the results of wounds he in- 
curred in a battle with the lapjdae in early life ■* he suffered repeated 
attacks of fever of the most serious kind, especially in the course of the 
campaign of Philippi and that against the Cantabrians, and again two 
years afterwards at Rome, when his recovery was despaired of. From 
that time, although constantly liable to be affected by cold and heat, 
and obliged to nurse himself throughout with the care of a valetudi- 
narian,t he does not appear to have had any return of illness so serious 
as the preceding 3 and dying at the age of seventy-four, the rumour 
obtained popular currency that he was prematurely cut off by poison 
administered by the empress.^ As the natural consequence of this 
bodily weakness and sickly constitution, Octavian did not attempt to 
distinguish himself by active exertions or feats of personal prowess. 
The splendid examples of his uncle the dictator, and of Antonius his 
rival, might have early discouraged him from attempting to shine as a 
warrior and hero : he had not the vivacity and animal spirits necessary 
to carry him through such exploits as theirs ; and, although he did 
not shrink from exposing himself to personal danger, he prudently 
declined to allow a comparison to be instituted between himself and 
rivals whom he could not hope to equal. Thus necessarily thrown 
back upon other resources, he trusted to caution and circumspection, 
first to preserve his own life, and afterwards to obtain the splendid 
prizes which had hitherto been carried off by daring adventure, and 
the good fortune which is so often its attendant. His contest there- 
fore with Antonius and Sextus Porapeius was the contest of cunning 
with bravery j but from his youth upwards he was accustomed to over- 
reach, not the bold and reckless only, but the most considerate and 
wily of his contemporaries, such as Cicero and Cleopatra ; he suc- 
ceeded in the end in deluding the senate and people of Rome in the 
establishment of his tyranny j and finally deceived the expectations of 
the world, and falsified the lessons of the Republican history, in reign- 
ing himself forty years in disguise, and leaving a throne to be claimed 
without a challenge by his successors for fourteen centuries. 

But although emperor in name, and in fact absolute master of his 
people, the manners of the Caesar, both in public and private life, were 
still those of a simple citizen. On the most solemn occasions he was 
distinguished by no other dress than the robes and insignia of the 
offices which he exercised ; he was attended by no other guards than 
those which his consular dignity rendered customary and decent. In 



* Suet. Oct. 20. 80. t Ibid. 81. 

X Tac. Ann. i. 5. Dio. Iv. 22 ; Ivi. 30. Aur. Vict. L 



892 THE EFERY-DJY BOOK [Merivale. 

his court there was none of the etiquette of modern monarchies to be 
recognised, and it was only by slow and gradual encroachment that it 
came to prevail in that of his successors. Augustus was contented to 
take up his residence in the house which had belonged to the orator 
Licinius Calvus, in the neighbourhood of the forum 5 which he after- 
wards abandoned for that of Hortensius on the Palatine,* of which 
Suetonius observes that it was remarkable neither for size nor splen- 
dour. Its halls were small, and lined, not with marble, after the 
luxurious fashion of many patrician palaces, but with the common 
Alban stone, and the pattern of the pavement was plain and simple. f 
Nor when he succeeded Lepidus in the pontificate would he relinquish 
this private dwelling for the regia or public residence assigned that 
honourable office. | 

Many anecdotes are recorded of the moderation with which the 
emperor received the opposition, and often the rebukes, of individuals 
in public as well as in private. These stories are not without their 
importance as showing how little formality there was in the tone of 
addressing the master of the Roman world, and how entirely different 
the ideas of the nation were, with regard to the position occupied by 
the Caesar and his family, from those with which modern associations 
have imbued us. We have already noticed the rude freedom with 
which Tiberius was attacked, although step-son of the emperor, and 
participating in the eminent functions of the tribunitian power, by a 
declaimer in the schools at Rhodes : but Augustus himself seems to 
have suffered almost as much as any private citizen from the general 
coarseness of behaviour which characterized the Romans in their public 
assemblies, and the rebukes to which he patiently submitted were fre- 
quently such as would lay the courtier of a constitutional sovereign in 
modern Europe under perpetual disgrace. 

On one occasion, for instance, in the public discharge of his func- 
tions as corrector of manners, he had brought a specific charge against 
a certain knight for having squandered his patrimony. The accused 
proved that he had, on the contrary, augmented it. "Well," answered 
the emperor, somewhat annoyed by his error, " but you are at all 
events living in celibacy contrary to recent enactments." The other 
was able to reply that he was married, and was the father of three 
legitimate children; and when the emperor signified that he had no 
further charge to bring, added aloud, "Another time, Caesar, when 
you give ear to informations against honest men, take care that your 



* Dio. liii. 16. KoKtlrai ^k to. (iatrlXfia TraXariov, ovx on koi i^otk ttoti ovTittg 
niiTu ovojia'CtG^at, «XX' oti 'ivrt ry TraXariii) 6 Kalaap (('jkbi, Kai eKtl to (XTpaTr/yiov 
ilxt. t Suet. Oct. 72. X Dio. liv. 27. 



Palgrave.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 893 

informants are honest themselves." Augustus felt the justice of the 
rebuke thus publicly administered, and submitted to it in silence.* — 
History of Rome under the Emperors, chap. iii. sect. 2. 



347.— THE SIMOON. 

[William Gifford Palgrave, 1826. 

[William Gifford Palgrave, son of the late Sir Francis Palgrave, vi^as born at 
Westminster, Jan. 24, 1826. He was educated at the Charter-house, and Trinity 
College, Oxford, and served as an officer in the Indian army from March, 1847, to 
August, 1853. He has been a great traveller, and his " Narrative of a Journey 
through Central and Eastern Arabia, in 1862-3," appeared in 1864. He was 
appointed Consul at Trebizond, May 28, 1867.] 

Next day, the 23rd of the month, yet clearer signs of our approach 
to Wadi Sirhan, became visible j and, as we took a somewhat 
northerly direction in order to join in with that valley, we sighted far 
off, in the extreme distance, a blue range of hills, running from west 
to east, and belonging to the Syro-Arabic waste, though unnoticed, to 
the best of my knowledge, in European maps j perhaps because undis- 
covered, or at least insufficiently explored. Meanwhile the sandy 
patches continued to increase and deepen on all sides, and our 
Bedouins flattered themselves with reaching Wadi Sirhan before 
nightfall. 

Here, however, an accident occurred which had well nigh put a 
premature end to the travels and the travellers together. My readers, 
no less than myself, must have heard or read many a story of the 
Simoon, or deadly wind of the desert j but for me, I had never yet 
met it in full force, and its modified form, or sheloole, to use the 
Arabic phrase, that is, the sirocco of the Syrian waste, though disagree- 
able enough, can hardly ever be termed dangerous. Hence, I had 
been almost induced to set down the tales told of the strange phe- 
nomena and fatal effects of this " poisoned gale " in the same cate- 
gory with the moving pillars of sand recorded in many works of 
higher historical pretensions than " Thalaba." At these perambu- 
latory columns and sand-smothered caravans, the Bedouins, whenever 
I interrogated them on the subject, laughed outright, and declared 
that, beyond an occasional dust storm, similar to those which any one 
who has passed a summer in Scinde can hardly fail to have experienced, 
nothing of the romantic kind just alluded to occurred in Arabia. But 
when questioned about the Simoon, they always related it as a much 
more serious matter, and such in real earnest we now found it. 



* Macrob. ii. 4. 



894 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Palgrave. 

It was about noon, and such a noon as a summer solstice can offer 
in the unclouded Arabian sky over a scorched desert, when abrupt 
and burning gusts of wind began to blow by fits from the south, while 
the oppressiveness of the air increased every moment till my com- 
panion and myself mutually asked each other what this could mean, 
and what was to be its result. We turned to inquire of Salem, but 
he had already wrapped up his face in his mantle, and, bowed down, 
and crouching on the neck of his camel, replied not a word. His com- 
rades, the two Sherarat Bedouins, had adopted a similar position, and 
were equally silent. At last, after repeated interrogations, Salem, 
instead of replying directly to our questioning, pointed to a small 
black tent, providentially at no great distance in front, and said, " Try 
to reach that; if we can get there, we are saved." He added, **Take 
care that your camels do not stop and lie down;" and then, giving 
his own several vigorous blows, relapsed into muffled silence. 

We looked anxiously towards the tent ; it was yet a hundred yards 
off or more. Meanwhile the gusts grew hotter and more violent, and 
it was only by repeated efforts that we could urge our beasts forward. 
The horizon rapidly darkened to a deep violet hue, and seemed to 
draw in like a curtain on every side ; while, at the same time, a 
stifling blast, as though from some enormous oven opening right on 
oLir path, blew steadily under the gloom ; our camels, too, began, in 
spite of all we could do, to turn round and round, and bend their 
knees preparing to lie down. The Simoon was fairly upon us. 

Of course we had followed our Arab's example by muffling our 
faces ; and now, with blows and kicks, we forced the staggering 
animals onwards to the only asylum within reach. So dark was the 
atmosphere, and so burning ttie heat, that it seemed that hell had 
risen from the earth, or descended from above. But we were yet in 
time ; and at the moment when the worst of the concentrated poison 
blast was coming around, we were already prostrate one and all within 
the tent, with our heads well wrapped up, almost suffocated indeed, 
but safe ; while our camels lay without like dead, their long necks 
stretched out on the sand awaiting the passing of the gale. 

On our first arrival the tent contained a solitary Bedouin woman, 
whose husband was away with his camels in^the Wadi Sirhan. When 
she saw five handsome men like us rush thus suddenly into her 
dwelling, without a word of leave or salutation, she very properly set 
up a scream to the tune of the four crown pleas, murder, arson, rob- 
bery, and I know not what else. Salem hastened to reassure her by 
calling out " Friends," and, without more words, threw himself flat on 
the ground. All followed his example in silence. 

We remained thus for about ten minutes, during which a still heat. 



FriswelL] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 895 

like that of red-hot iron slowly passing over us, was alone to be felt. 
Then the tent walls began again to flap in the returning gusts, and 
announced that the worst of the Simoon had gone by. We got up, 
half dead with exhaustion, and unmuilled our faces. My comrades 
appeared more like corpses than living men ; and so, I suppose, did I. 
However, I could not forbear, in spite of warning, to step out and 
look at the camels ; they were still lying flat as if they had been shot. 
The air was yet darkish, but before long it brightened up to its usual 
dazzling clearness. During the whole time that the Simoon lasted, 
the atmosphere was entirely free from sand or dust, so that I hardly 
know how to account for its singular obscurity. — Narrative of a 
Year s Journey through Central and Eastern Arabia (1862-63), chap. i. 



348.— ON PURPOSE IN LIFE. 

[James Hain Friswell, 1827. 

[James Hain Friswell was born at Newport, Shropshire, in 1827, and was educated 
at Aspley School. His father was a London solicitor, and he was intended for the pro- 
fession of the law, but he preferred literature, and appeared as an author in 1852, writing 
for numerous periodicals : " Chambers','* " The Spectator," " London Review," 
"Saturday Review," &c. &c. He is the author of " Life Portraits of Shakspeare," 
" Houses with the Fronts oflP," " Footsteps to Fame," the " Gentle Life," " About 
in the World," " Varia, or Readings from Rare Books,"&c., &c. Mr. Friswell has 
also edited more than one periodical, and writes in many first-class ones.] 

The man without a purpose lives on, of course, but he enjoys not life. 
He distresses and abuses man j and cries out a dog, a lion, a piece of 
moss, or an oak tree, these are noble works, bat man is altogether 
base. Life affords no pleasures, and its rewards are tinsel. The only 
thing to be worshipped — and these minds always worship that most 
opposite to them — is Power. Show how strong you are j like the 
giant in a country fair, walk round, and exhibit your muscle ; and the 
purposeless man will applaud and envy you, and then say you are not 
so strong as you look. As he has no purpose himself, he does not 
believe in purpose, nor in design. Every thing in his opinion — and he 
is a clever man, it must be owned — ^'^ growed so," like our friend 
Topsy. Grass became herb, herb shrub, shrub tree ; fishes crawled 
and sprawled on the sand till they became birds, and the birds lived on 
till their wings became arms, and their claws toes, and their bony legs 
like the shapely limb of the Belvedere Apollo. Credat Judceus ! The 
Lotos-eater will beat the Jew Apelles, and believe all this happy-go- 
lacky purposeless creation, this " produce of aggregation and tit appo- 
sition of matter," rather than the Mosaic cosmogony ! 



896 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [FriswelL 

But enough of him who floats down life's stream, now bumping 
against the shore, now bound in a land-locked little bay, now over- 
whelmed in an eddy. What about the man of purpose, and how is 
one to become purposeful ? 

Simply by choosing one point — let it be the noblest you can con- 
ceive — and sticking to your resolve. As for the man of purpose, his 
character has been written by a wiser pen than mine, or than we shall 
produce, perhaps, in a hundred years — by William Wordsworth, in 
" The Happy Warrior," when, in answer to his own question, "Who 
is the happy warrior ? Who is he that every man in arms should wish 
to be?" he tells us of a noble purpose, nobly won. The happy war- 
rior is one who has been true to his ideal, '^ who hath wrought upon 
the plan thai pleased his boyish thought," because when we are boys 
we are somewhat nearer Heaven, and our longings and imaginings are 
pure and true. Such a man passes through Pain, Fear, Trouble, and 
Doubt easily, because he transmutes them from evil to teach us of good. 
For him evil is a good, pain a teacher, doubt and fear warning voices. 
If such a man, says the poet, rises to station of command he rises by 
open means, and if he cannot use these means, he will retire. He takes 
nothing on sufferance, his purpose is to be good, not great, or great and 
good, if greatness will come ; greatness which is often a trouble to him 
and a snare. In trial such a man is great. It is the good horse that 
puts its shoulder to the collar when the pull comes. The gaiety and 
even merriment of great men in times of trouble is infinitely touching 
in a tragedy, but it is true in nature. Wordsworth tells us that in 
" great issues," good or bad for human kind, the man with a purpose 
" is happy as a lover j and attired with sudden brightness as a man in- 
spired." But he does not wear this holiday garb always. Your true 
hero does not strut. He is fond of home scenes, and even can suck 
his own baby's toffy and eat cake. He knows what homefelt pleasures 
and gentle scenes are ; despises not the ties which surround him 3 nor 
proudly erects himself against God and nature, but loves and reve- 
rences the human heart. 

The man with a purpose has a constant influence for the good upon 
those about him, and as the Jtdneur makes others lazy, and is himself 
stirred to some three-halfpenny endeavour by seeing others work, so 
this happy warrior diffuses and again catches the hope, certainty, and 
happiness which fill his breast. As he does not dream nor howl over 
the impossible, certain lurid souls call him shallow, but they are those 
who fancy the empty tun the more valuable because it sounds loudest, 
or the dark puddle the deepest because they cannot see its bottom like 
that of a well. But others, who know him better, know his wisdom 
and his goodness too j know the peaceful calm which he has attained j 



Schiller and Coleridge.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 897 

and do not mistake the jewel they have before them — because, per- 
chance, it sparkles a little less than that fractured and worthless piece 
of glass the sun shines on. Such is the man who sets out in life with 
a certain determined and healthful purpose; who knows what he is 
about, and who, like many we have, thank Heaven, in England, is not 
the creature of circumstances, but makes circumstance his ladder where- 
with to rise — 

**Who breaks his birth's invidious bar. 
Who grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
Who breasts the blows of circumstance. 
And grapples with his evil star." 
— Life's Equipage, from the "Englishman's Magazine," Jan. i, 1865. 



349.— THE ASTROLOGER'S CHAMBER. 

[Schiller (1759 — 1805) and Coleridge, 1772 — 1834. 

[A prose reading from Coleridge's works has already been given at page 13. As his 
best poemsj " Christabel," " Genevieve," and " The Ancient Mariner" are known to 
every onej we have selected, instead of more hackneyed passages from his works, a 
portion of his translation of Schiller's " Wallenstein," thus presenting to our readers 
the great German and great English poets at the same time. A passage from the 
prose writings of Schiller will be found at page 173.] 

Thekla, Wallenstein's daughter; Countess Tertsky ; Max. Piccolomini. 

Coun. (laughs.) The astrological tower ! — How happens it 
That this same sanctuary, whose access 
Is to all others so impracticable. 
Opens before you e'en at your approach ? 

Thek. A dwarfish old man with a friendly face 
And snow-white hair, whose gracious services 
Were mine at first sight, open'd me the doors. 

Max. That is the Duke's astrologer, old Seni. 

Thek. He question'd me on many points ; for instance. 
When I was born, what month, and on what day. 
Whether by day or in the night. 

Coun. He wish'd 

To erect a figure for your horoscope. 

Thek. My hand too he examin'd, shook his head 
With much sad meaning, and the lines, methought. 
Did not square over truly with his wishes. 

Coun. Well, Princess, and what found you in this tower i 
My highest privilege has been to snatch 
A side-glance, and away ! 

3 M 



898 THE EFERY- DAY BOOK [Schiller and Coleridge. 

Thek. It was a strange 

Sensation that came o'er me, when at first 
From the broad sunshine I stepp'd in ; and now 
The narrowing line of day-light, that ran after 
The closing door, was gone ; and all about me 
'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows 
Fantastically cast. Here siK or seven 
Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me 
In a half-circle. Each one in his hand 
A sceptre bore, and on his head a star. 
And in the tower no other light was there 
But from these stars : all seem'd to come from them. 
"These are the planets," said that low old man j 
*' They govern worldly fates, and for that cause 
Are imag'd here as kings. He farthest from you. 
Spiteful and cold, an old man melancholy, 
With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn. 
He opposite, the King with a red hght. 
An arm'd man for the battle, that is Mars : 
And both these bring but little luck to man," 
But at his side a lovely lady stood. 
The star upon her head was soft and bright. 
And that was Venus, the bright star of joy. 
On the left hand, lo ! Mercury, with wings. 
Quite in the middle glitter'd silver-bright 
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien | 
And this was Jupiter, my father's star: 
And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon. 

Max. O never rudely will I blame his faith 
In the might of stars and angels ! 'Tis not merely 
The human being's pride that peoples space 
With life and mystical predominance ; 
Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love 
This visible nature, and this common world. 
Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper import 
Lurks in the legend told my infant years 
Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. 
For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place : 
Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and tahsmans. 
And spirits ; and delightedly believes 
Divinities, being himself divine. 
The intelligible forms of ancient poets. 
The fair humanities of old religion. 



White.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 899 

The power, the beauty, and the majesty. 
That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain. 
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 
Or chasms and wat'ry depths 3 all these have vanish'd. 
They Jive no longer in the faith of reason ! 
But still the heart doth need a language, still 
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names. 
And to yon starry world they now are gone. 
Spirits* or gods, that us'd to share this earth 
With man as with their friend ; and to the lover 
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky 
Shoot influence down : and even at this day 
'Tis Jupiter who brings whatever is great. 
And Venus who brings every thing that's fair ! 
Thek. And if this be the science of the stars, 
I too, with glad and zealous industry. 
Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith. 
It is a gentle and affectionate thought. 
That in immeasurable heights above us. 
At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven, 
With sparkling stars for flowers. 
— The Piccolomini ; or, the First Part of IVallensteln, act ii. sc. 4. 



o;,a— THE EVANGELISTS' DESCRIPTION OF THE CHARACTER OF 

OUR LORD. 

[Rev. Joseph White, 1746 — 1814. 

[Joseph White was born at Gloucester, about 1746. He was the son of a poor 
weaver, but exhibiting in his childhood "great aptitude for acquiring knowledge," a 
wealthy country neighbour undertook his education, and he was sent to Wadham 
College, Oxford, where he distinguished himself as a classical and Oriental scholar. 
In 1783 he was chosen to deliver the Bampton Lectures, the subject being "A View 
of Christianity and Mahometanism." Of all the sermons preached in this or in 
any other country, these were the most celebrated ; the only exception, perhaps, being 
those of the Petit Careme of Masillon. They brought their author, when published, 
a valuable prebend in the cathedral of Gloucester. Unfortunately for his feme, it 
was afterwards discovered that he had been greatly assisied in preparing them by Dr. 
Parr and the Rev. Sam. Badcock, an obligation which he had not the honesty to 
acknowledge. His chief works are, " Specimen of the Civil and Military Institutes of 
Timour or Tamerlane, from the Persian," " Chronological Arrangement of the Passages 
in the Greek Text of the Four Gospels," an edition of the Greek New Testament, 



* No more of talk, where god or angel guest 
With man, as with his fiiend familiar, us'd 
To sit indulgent. Paradise Lost, B, IX. 

3 M 3 



9CO THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [White. 

and a Latin translation of Abdallatig's "Description of Egypt." Dr. White was 
Regius Professor of Hebrew, Canon of Christchurch, and Archbishop Laud's 
Professor of Arabic] 

I BEG your permission to introduce some interesting, and, I hope, not 
impertinent reflections on the nature of that historical form in which 
the Christian Revelation has been transmitted to us. 

This form involves the correctness of system without its abstruseness, 
and the energy of eloquence without its ostentation. It happily unites 
the brightness of example with the precision and perspicuity of precept. 
To the minuteness of detail which belongs to biogt^aphy, it adds much 
of that regular arrangement, and of that vivid colouring, by which the 
more eminent writers of poetry have endeavoured to mark the dis- 
tinguishing and appropriate qualities of their favourite heroes. Instead 
of sometimes amusing, and sometimes astonishing us, with those bril- 
liant but indistinct and fleeting impressions which are excited by 
general descriptions, or elaborate panegyric, it leads us through a series 
of uniform and characteristic actions, into a clear and full knowledge 
of the agent. It enables and gently impels the mind to combine, by 
its own operation, all the detached instances of virtue into one bright 
assemblage. It transports the imagination, as it were, into the presence 
of the person whose excellences are recorded, and gives all the finer 
sensibilities of the soul an immediate and warm interest in every word 
and every action. Hence the manner in which the sacred writers 
have described the actions of Christ, not only increases the efficacy of 
His instructions, but constitutes a new, a striking, and peculiar species 
of evidence for the truth of His religion. 

This position it may be of use for us to illustrate yet further. 

To compare the character of Socrates with that of Christ, is foreign 
to our present purpose : but of the manner in which their lives have 
been respectively written, we may properly take some notice. On the 
history of Socrates, then, have been employed the exquisite taste of 
Xenophon, and the sublime genius of Plato. The virtues of this ex- 
traordinary man are selected by them as the noblest subject for the fullest 
display and most active exertion of their talents : and they have brought 
to the task not merely the sagacity of philosophers, but the affection of 
friends, and the zeal of enthusiasts. 

Now the difterent style of their writings, and the diflferent tempers 
as well as capacities of the writers themselves, have produced some 
variety both in the scenes in which they have exhibited their master, 
and in the opinions which they have ascribed to him. But, in the com- 
position of each, Socrates is distinguished by a noble contempt of 
popular prejudice, and perverted science j by an ardent admiration and 
steady pursuit of virtue ; by an anxious concern for the moral improve- 



White.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 901 

ment of his hearers ; and by an heroic superiority to the pleasures of 
life, and to the terrors of impending death. What his illustrious 
biographers have performed in such a manner as to engage the atten- 
tion and excite the admiration of successive ages, has been accom- 
plished with yet greater success by the sacred writers. They have 
attained the same end under heavier difficulties, and by the aid of 
means which, if they are considered as merely human, must surely be 
deemed inadequate to the task which they undertook. They were by 
no means distinguished by literary attainments, or by intellectual 
powers. Their education could not bestow on them very exalted or 
correct ideas of morality -, and their writings were destitute of every re- 
commendation from the artificial ornaments of style. Yet have these four 
unlearned men effected, by their artless simplicity, a work to which the 
talents of the two greatest writers of antiquity were not more than equal. 

They have exhibited a character far more lovely in itself, and far 
more venerable, than fiction has ever painted 5 and in their mode of 
exhibiting it, they surpass the fidelity, the distinctness, and precision, 
which two of the most celebrated writers have been able to preserve, 
when exerting the whole powers of their genius, and actuated by the 
fondest attachment, they were endeavouring to do justice to the noblest 
pattern of real virtue of which antiquity can boast. In Jesus have the 
Evangelists described brighter and more numerous virtues, than Socrates 
is said even by his professed admirers to have possessed. In their de- 
scription they have, without effort, and under the influence, it must be 
allowed, of sincere conviction only, maintained a greater uniformity 
than the most prejudiced reader can discover in the beautiful composi- 
tions of Plato and Xenophon. 

If the desire of communicating their own favourite opinions, or the 
mutual jealousy of literary fame, be assigned as a reason for the diver- 
sity of representation in the two Greek writers, we allow the proba- 
bility of both suppositions : but we contend, that each of these motives 
is inconsistent with that love of truth, which is necessary to establish 
the credibility of a biographer. We also contend, that the Evangelists 
were really possessed of this excellent quality 5 that they never deviated 
from it in order to indulge their enmity or envy^ and that, with 
apparent marks of difference in their language, their dispositions, and, 
perhaps, in their abilities, they have yet exhibited the character of 
Christ the most striking, if their narratives be separately considered ; 
and the most consistent, if they be compared with each other. Be it 
observed too, that the difficulty of preserving that consistence increases 
both with the peculiarity and magnitude of the excellences described, 
and with the number of the persons who undertake the office of de- 
scribing them. 



902 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Davy. 

If it be said, that the superior pretensions of Christ, as a divine 
teacher, required more splendid virtues than what are expected from 
Socrates, who taught morahty upon principles of human reason only ; 
whence is it that the unpolished, uncultivated minds of the Evangelists 
should even conceive a more magnificent character than the imagina- 
tions of a Plato, or a Xenophon ? What aids did they apparently 
possess for representing it more advantageously ? That those four un- 
lettered men should have drawn such a character, with more uniformity 
in the whole, and with more sublimity in the parts, is therefore a fact 
which can be accounted for only by admitting the constant and imme- 
diate guidance of the Holy Spirit, the real existence of Christ's perfec- 
tions, and the strong and lasting impression they made upon those 
who conversed with him. Those perfections themselves were, indeed, 
extraordinary both in kind and in degree. In their kind they are 
admirable patterns for the conduct of Christ's followers j and in their 
degree, they are eminently and indisputably proportioned to the trans- 
cendent and unrivalled dignity of his own mission. — Sermons Preached 
before the University of Oxford, in the Year 1784, at the Lecture founded 
by the Rev. John Hampton, M .A. 

351.— ON THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF IMMORTALITY. 

[Sir Humphry Davy, 1778-1829. 

[SiH Humphry Davy was born at Penzance, Cornwall, in 1778. He was educated 
for the, medical profession, but never practised it, and he became superintendent of the 
l^neumatic Institution at Bristol. The publication of his "Chemical and Philo- 
sophical Researches," obtained for him the Professorship of Chemistry in the Royal 
Institution of London. In 1802 he was made Professor to the Board of Agriculture, 
and in 18 18 a baronetcy was conferred on the gifted chemist. In 1820 he was 
elected President of the Hoyal Society, to whose" Transactions" he contributed many 
valuable papers. Sir Humphry discovered the metallic bases of the earths and 
alkalies, and the principles of electro-chemistry, and invented the miner's safety- 
lamp. Bcsifles his philosophical works, Davy wrote "Salmonia; or. Days of Fly- 
fishing," and "Consolations in Travel; or, the Last Days of a Philosopher." He 
died at Geneva, 1829.] 

\\ there be (which I think cannot be doubted) a consciousness of good 
or evil constantly belonging to the sentient principle in man, then 
rewards and punishments naturally belong to acts of this consciousness, 
to obedience or disobedience j and the indestructibility of the sentient 
being is necessary to the decrees of eternal justice. On your view, 
even in this life, just punishments for crimes would be almost impos- 
sible ; for the materials of which human beings are composed change 
rapidly, and in a few years, probably, not an atom of the primitive 
structure remains; yet even the materialist is obliged, in old age, 
to do penance for the sins of his youth, and does not complain of the 



Dwy.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 903 

injostice of hLs decrepit body, entirely changed and made stiff by 

time, and suffering tor the intemperance of his youthful flexible frame. 

On my idea, the conscience is the frame of the mind, fitted for its 

probation in mortality. And this is in exact accordance with the 

foundations of our religion,, the divine origin of which is marked no 

less by its history than its harmony with the principles of our nature. 

Obedience to its precepts not only prepares for a better state of 

existence in another world, but is likewise calculated to make us happy 

here. We are constantly taught to renounce sensual pleasure and 

selfish gratifications, to forget our body and sensible organs, to associate 

cor pleasures with mind, to fix our affections upon the great ideal 

generalization of intelligence in the One Supreme Being ; and that w^e 

are capable of forming to ourselves an imperfect idea even of the 

eternal mind is, I think, a strong presumption of our own immortality, 

and of the distinct relation which our finite knowledsre bears to eternal 

wisdom. 

******* 

The doctrine of the materialists was always, even in my youth, a 
cold, heavy, dull, and insupportable doctrine to me, and necessarily 
tending to atheism. When I had heard, with disgust, in the dissecting 
rooms, the plan of the physiologist, of the gradual accretion of matter, 
and its becoming endowed with irritability, ripening into sensibility, 
and acquiring such organs as were necessary by its own inherent forces, 
and at last issuing into intellectual existence, a walk into the green fields 
or woods, by the banks of rivers, brought back my feehngs from Nature 
to God. I saw in all the powers of matter the instruments of the Deity. 
The sunbeams, the breath of the zephyr, awakening animation in forms 
prepared by divine intelligence to receive it, the insensate seed, the 
slumbering eggs which were to be vivified, appeared, like the new-- 
born animal, works of a divine mind ; I saw love as the creative prin- 
ciple in the material world, and this love only as a divine attribute. 
Then my own mind I felt connected with new sensations and indefinite 
hopes — a thirst for immortality ; the great names of other ages and of 
distant nations appeared to me to be still living around me, and even 
in the fancied movements of the heroic and the great, I saw, as it were, 
the decrees of the indestructibility of mind. These feelings, though 
generally considered as poetical, yet, I think, offer a sound philosophical 
argument in favour of the immortality of the soul. In all the habits 
and instincts of young animals, their feelings and movements, may be 
traced an intimate relation to their improved perfect state ; their sports 
have always affinities to their modes of hunting or catching their 
food ; and young birds, even in the nests, show marks of fondness 
which, when their frames are developed, become signs of actions 



904 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Collins. 

necessary to the reproduction and preservation of the species. The 
desire of glory, of honour, of immortal fame, and of constant know- 
ledge, so usual in young persons of well-constituied minds, cannot, I 
think, be other than symptoms of the infinite and progressive nature 
of the intellect — hopes which, as they cannot be gratified here, belong 
to a frame of mind suited to a nobler state of existence. 

Religion, whether natural or revealed, has always the same beneficial 
influence on the mind. In youth, in health and prosperity, it awakens 
feelings of gratitude and sublime love, and purifies at the same time 
that it exalts. But it is in misfortune, in sickness, in age, that its 
effects are most truly and beneficially felt ; when submission in faith 
and humble trust in the Divine will, from duties become pleasures, 
underlying sources of consolation. Then it creates powers which 
were believed to be extinct, and gives a freshness to the mind which 
was supposed to have passed away for ever, but which is now reno- 
vated as an immortal hope. Then it is the Pharos, guiding the wave- 
tost mariner to his home ; as the calm and beautiful still basins or fiords, 
surrounded by tranquil groves and pastoral meadows to the Norwegian 
pilot escaping from a heavy storm in the North Sea j or as the green 
and dewy spot, gushing with fountains, to the exhausted and thirsty 
traveller in the midst of the desert. Its influence outlives all earthly 
enjoyments, and becomes stronger as the organs decay and the frame 
dissolves. It appears as that evening star of light in the horizon of 
life, which we are sure is to become in another season a morning star j 
and it throws its radiance through the gloom and shadow of death. — 
Consolations in Travel ; or, the Last Days of a Philosopher. The Pro- 
teus ; or, Immortality. Fourth Dialogue. 



352.— CAPTAIN WRAGGE INTRODUCES HIS NIECE TO MRS. 
WRAGGE. 

[W. WiLKiE Collins, 1824. 

[W. WiLKiE Collins was born in London in J824. He is a son of the well-known 
painter of rural life, William Collins, R.A., and was educated at a private school. 
He wrote a biography of his father, published in 1848. Mr. Collins is a cltver ama- 
teur actor, and took a prominent part as a member of the Guild of Literature and 
Art. In 1847 ^^ published a drama, called "The Frozen Deep," but it is as a novelist 
that Mr. Wilkie Collins is best known. His " Antonina," " Woman in White," 
" No Name," " Basil," " After Dark," "The Dead Secret," " Queen of Hearts," and 
** Rambles beyond Railways : a Narrative of a Walking Tour in Cornwall," 
have found great favour with the public — especially the " Woman in White," which 
appeared as a serial in 1859-60 in "All the Year Round." Mr. Collins has been 
frequently associated with Mr. Charles Dickens in writing Christmas stories.] 

The captain threw open the door of the front room on the first 
floor J and disclosed a female figure, arrayed in a gown of tarnished 



-Collins.] - OF MODERN LITERATURE. ^905 

amber-coloured satin, seated solitary on a small chair, with dingy old 
gloves on its hands, with a tattered old book on its knees, and with one 
little bedroom candle by its side. The figure terminated at its upper 
extremity in a large, smooth, white round face, like a moon — encircled 
by a cap and green ribbons j and dimly irradiated by eyes of mild and 
faded blue, which looked straightforward into vacancy, and took not 
the smallest notice of Magdalen's appearance, on the opening of the 
door. 

"Mrs. Wragge!" cried the captain, shouting at her, as if she was 
fast asleep. " Mrs. Wragge !" 

The lady of the faded blue eyes slowly rose, to an apparently inter- 
minable height. When she had at last attained an upright position, she 
towered to a stature of two or three inches over six feet. Giants of 
both sexes are, by a wise dispensation of Providence, created for the 
most part gentle. If Mrs. Wragge and a lamb had been placed side 
by side — comparison, under those circumstances, would have exposed 
the lamb as a rank impostor. 

"Tea, dear?" inquired Mrs. Wragge; looking submissively down 
at her husband, whose head when he stood on tiptoe barely reached 
her shoulder. 

" Miss Vanstone, the younger," said the captain, presenting Mag- 
dalen. " Our fair relative, whom I have met by a fortunate accident. 
Our guest for the night. Our guest !" reiterated the captain, shout- 
ing once more, as if the tall lady was still fast asleep, in spite of the 
plain testimony of her own eyes to the contrary. 

A smile expressed itself (in faint outline) on the large vacant space 
of Mrs. Wragge's countenance. "Oh?" she said, interrogatively. 
"Oh, indeed? Please, miss, will you sit down? I'm sorry — no, I 
don't mean I'm sorry 3 I mean, I'm glad " She stopped, and con- 
sulted her husband by a helpless look. 

" Glad, of course!" shouted the captain. 

"Glad, of course," echoed the giantess of the amber-satin, more 
meekly than ever. 

" Mrs. Wragge is not deaf," explained the captain. " She's only a 
little slow. Constitutionally torpid — if I may use the expression. I 
am merely loud with her (and I beg you will honour me by being 
loud, too) as a necessary stimulant to her ideas. Shout at her — and 
her mind comes up to time. Speak to her — and she drifts miles away 
from you directly. Mrs. Wragge !" 

Mrs. Wragge instantly acknowledged the stimulant. "Tea, dear?" 
she inquired, for the second time. 

" Put your cap straight !" shouted her husband. " I beg ten thou- 
sand pardons," he resumed, again addressing himself to Magdalen. 



9o6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Bourrienne. 

''The sad truth is, I am a martyr to my own sense of order. All un- 
tidiness, all want of system and regularity, causes me the acutest irrita- 
tion. My attention is distracted, my composure is upset 5 I can't rest 
till things are set straight again. Externally speaking, Mrs. Wragge 
is, to my infinite regret, the crookedest woman I ever met with. 
More to the right !" shouted the captain, as Mrs. Wragge, like a well- 
trained child, presented herself with her revised headdress for her hus- 
band's inspection. 

Mrs. Wragge immediately pulled the cap to the left. Magdalen 
rose, and set it right for her. The moon-face of the giantess brightened 
for the first time. She looked admiringly at Magdalen's cloak and 
bonnet. *' Do you like dress, miss?" she asked, suddenly, in a confi- 
dential whisper. ** I do." 

" Show Miss Vanstone her room," said the captain, looking as if the 
whole house belonged to him. " The spare room, the landlady's spare 
room, on the third floor front. Offer Miss Vanstone all articles con- 
nected with the toilet of which she may stand in need. She has no 
luggage with her. Supply the deficiency ; and then come back and 
make tea." 

Mrs. Wragge acknowledged the receipt of these lofty directions by 
a look of placid bewilderment, and led the way out of the room 3 
Magdalen following her, with a candle presented by the attentive captain. 
As soon as they were alone on the landing outside, Mrs. Wragge raised 
the tattered old book which she had been reading when Magdalen was 
first presented to her, and which she had never let out of her hand 
since ; and slowly tapped herself on the forehead with it. *' Oh, my 
poor head," said the tall lady, in meek soliloquy j " it's Buzzing again 
worse than ever." 

" Buzzing ?" repeated Magdalen, in the utmost astonishment. 

Mrs. Wragge ascended the stairs, without offering any explanation j 
stopped at one of the rooms on the second floor 5 and led the way in. 
— No Name, chap, ii., "All the Year Round," 1862. 



353._YOUTH OF NAPOLEON. 

[Louis Antonio Fauvelet de Bourrienne, 1769 — 1834. 

[Louis Antonio Fauvelet de Bourrienne was born at Sens, 1769, and educated at 
the Military School of Brienne. He was a schoolfellow of Napoleon Bonaparte, and 
from an acquaintance became an intimate friend. In his twentieth year Bourrienne 
was attached to the French Embassy at Vienna. He afterwards studied international 
law at Warsaw for two years. On his return to Paris he renewed his intimacy with 
Napoleon, and they were together witnesses of the attack on the Tuileries. On 



Bourrienne.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 907 



Napoleon^s accession to pcwer, Bourrienne became private secretan,- to him, from 1796 
to 1802, when he was dismissed. In 1805 he was appointed Charge' d' Affaires of France 
for the circle of Lower Saxony, but was soon after charged with peculation, and 
compelled to refund a million of francs. This caused his ruin. On the return of 
the Bourbons, he attached himself to their dynasty, was made Commissary of Police 
in Paris, and was elected Deputy of the Department of Yonne. In 1828 he sought 
refuge from his creditors in Belgium, when he began his celebrated " Memoirs of the 
Emperor Napoleon." This work was puDlished in ten volumes in the course of 1829 
and J 830, and excited the greatest interest. Bourrienne died insane in a hospital at 
Caen, in Normandy, 1834.] 

As Napoleon was an active observer of everything passing around 
him, and pronounced his opinion openly and decidedly, he did not 
remain long at the military school of Paris. His superiors, who were 
anxious to get rid of him, hurried the period of his examination, and 
he obtained the first vacant sub -lieutenancy in a regiment of artillery. 

I left Erienne in 1787, and as I could not enter the artillery, I pro- 
ceeded the following year to Vienna, with a letter of recommendation 
to M. de Montmorin, soliciting employment in the French embassy, 
then at the Court of Austria. 

I remained two months at Vienna, where I had the honour of twice 
seeing the Emperor Joseph. The impression made upon me by his 
kind reception, his dignified and elegant manners, and graceful conver- 
sation, will never be obliterated from my recollection. After M. de 
Noailles had initiated me in the first steps of diplomacy, he advised 
me to go to one of the German universities to study the law of nations 
and foreign languages. I accordingly repaired to Leipsic. 

I had scarcely got there when the French Revolution broke out, 
Alas! The reasonable ameliorations which the age demanded, and 
which right-thinking men desired, were widely ditferent from that 
total overthrow and destruction of the State, the condemnation of the 
best of kings, and the long series of crimes which sully the pages of 
French history. 

I spent some tim.e at Leipsic, where I applied myself to the study 
of the law of nations, and the German and English languages. I 
afterwards travelled through Prussia and Poland, and passed a part of 
the winter of 179 i and 1792 at Warsaw, where I was most graciously 
received by Princess Tysziewicz, niece of Stanislaus Augustus, the last 
king of Poland, and the sister of Prince Poniatowski. The Princess 
was very well informed, and was a great admirer of French literature. 
At her invitation I passed several evenings in company with the King, 
in a circle small enough to approach to something like intimacy. I 
remember that his ]Majesty frequently asked me to read the Moniteur ; 
the speeches to which he listened with the greatest pleasure were those 
of the Girondists. Princess Tysziewicz wished to print at Warsa\v, 



9o8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [B 



ournenne. 



at her own expense, a translation I had executed of Kotzebue's " Men- 
schenhass und ReQe," to which I gave the title of " L'Inconnu."* 

I arrived at Vienna on the 26th of March, 1792, when I was in- 
formed of the serious illness of the Emperor, Leopold II., who died on 
the following day. In private companies and at public places I 
heard vague suspicions expressed of his having been poisoned; but the 
public, who were admitted to the palace to see the body lie in state, 
were soon convinced of the falsehood of these reports. I went twice 
to see the mournful spectacle, and I never heard a word which was 
calculated to confirm the odious suspicion, though the spacious hall in 
which the remains of the emperor were exposed was constantly 
thronged with people. 

In the month of April, 1792, I returned to Paris, where I again 
met Bonaparte, and our college intimacy was renewed. I was not 
very well off, and adversity was hanging heavily on him 3 his resources 
frequently failed him. We passed our time like two young fellows of 
twenty-three, who have little money, and less occupation. Bonaparte 
was always poorer than I. Every day we conceived some new project 
or other. We were on the look out for some profitable speculation. 
At one time he wanted me to join him in renting several houses, then 
building in the Rue Montholon, to underlet them afterwards. We 
found the demands of the landlords extravagant — everything failed. 
At the same time he was soliciting employment at the war-office, and 
I at the office of foreign affairs. I was for the moment the luckier of 
the two. 

While we were spending our time in a somewhat vagabond way, 
the 20th of June arrived. We met by appointment at a restaurateur's 
in the Rue St. Honore, near the Palais Royal, to take one of our daily 
rambles. On going out we saw approaching, in the direction of the 
market, a mob, which Bonaparte calculated at five or six thousand 
men. They were all in rags, armed with weapons of every descrip- 
tion, and were proceeding hastily towards the Tuileries, vociferating 
all kinds of gross abuse. It was a collection of a!l that was most vile 
and abject in the purlieus of Paris. " Let us follow this mob," said 
Bonaparte. We got the start of them, and took up our station on the 
terrace, the banks of the river. It was there that he witnessed the 
scandalous scenes which took place; and it would be difficult to 
describe the surprise and indignation which they excited in him. 
When the King showed himself at the windows overlooking the 
garden, with the red cap, which one of the mob had put on his head. 



This is the play known on the English stage under the title of " The Stranger." 



Baker.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 909 

he could no longer repress his indignation. " Che coglione .'" he 
loudly exclaimed J "why have they let in all that rabble? Why 
don't they sweep off four or five hundred of them with the cannon ; 
the rest would then set off fast enough." 

When we sat down to dinner, which I paid for, as I generally did, 
for I was the richer of the two, he spoke of nothing bat the scene we 
had witnessed. He discussed, with great good sense, the causes and 
consequences of this unrepressed insurrection. He foresaw and de- 
veloped with sagacity all tiiat would ensue. He was not mistaken. 
The loth of August soon arrived. I was then at Stuttgard, where I 
was appointed Secretar)^ of Legation. At St. Helena Bonaparte said : 
"On the attack of the Tuileries, on the loth of August, I hurried to 
Fauvelet, Bourrienne's brother, who kept a furniture warehouse at the 
Carrousel." This is partly correct. My brother was connected with 
what was termed an entreprise cC encan national, where persons intend- 
ing to quit France received an advance of money, on depositing any 
etfects which they wished to dispose of, and which were sold for them 
immediately. Bonaparte had some time previously pledged his watch 
in this way. 

After the fatal loth of August, Bonaparte went to Corsica, and did 
not return till 1793. Sir Walter Scott says that, after that time, he 
never saw Corsica again. This is a mistake, as will be shown when I 
speak of his return from Egypt.* 

Having been appointed Secretary of Legation to Stuttgard, I set off 
for that place on the 2nd of August, and I did not again see my ardent 
young friend until 1795. — Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, vol. i. 
chap. ii. 



354.— THE ISLAND CAMP. 

[Sir Samuel White Baker, 1821. 

[Samuel White Baker is eldest son of the late Samuel Baker, of Thorn Grove, 
Worcestershire. He was born in 182 1, and having a natural inclination for travel- 



* Sir Walter appears to have collected his information for the " Life of Napoleon " 
only from those libels and vulgar stories which gratified his calumnious spirit and national 
hatred. His work is written with excessive negligence, which, added to its numerous 
errors, shows how much respect he must have entertained for his readers. It would 
appear that his object was to make it the inverse of his novels, where everything 
is borrowed from history. I have been assured that Marshal Macdonald having 
offered to introduce Sir Walter Scott to some generals, who could have furnished 
him with the most accurate information respecting military events, the glory of which 
they had shared. Sir Walter replied, "I thank you, but I shall collect my information 
from popular reports." — Bourrienne's Memoirs of Napoleon, 



910 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Baker. 

interesting account in his " Eight Years' Wanderings" (1855). I" ' ^61 he made an 
expedition to Africa, in the hope of meeting Captains Speke and Grant at the sources 
of the Nile. Sir S. Baker was accompanied by his wife. He explored the tribu- 
taries of the Abbaza. He discovered the great lake which he has named Albert 
N'Yanza, This lake, with the Victoria N'Yanza, constitute the two great reservoirs 
of the Nile. Sir Samuel's works are "The Rifle and Hound in Ceylon," "The 
Albert N'Yanza/' &c. He is F.E.S. and F.R.G.S., and was knighted November 10, 
1866.] 

We employed ourselves until the camels should arrive, in cutting 
thorn braucheSj and constructing a zaruba, or fenced camp, to protect 
our animals durino- the nioht from the attacks of wild beasts. I also 
hollowed out a thick green bush to form an arbour, as a retreat during 
the heat of the day, and in a short space of time we were prepared for 
the reception of the camels and effects. The river had cast up immense 
stores of dry wood j this we had collected, and by the time the camels 
arrived with the remainder of the party after dark, huge fires were 
blazing high in air, the lights of which had guided them direct to 
our camp. They were heavily laden with meat, which is the Arab's 
great source of happiness, therefore in a few minutes the whole party 
was busily employed in cutting the flesh into long thin strips to dry: 
these were hung in festoons over the surrounding trees, while the fires 
were heaped with tit-bits of all descriptions. I had chosen a remark-^ 
ably snug position for ourselves, the two angars (stretchers) were 
neatly arranged in the middle of a small space free from overhanging 
boughs ; near these blazed a large fire, upon which were roasting a 
row of marrow-bones of buffalo and titel, while the table was spread 
with a clean cloth, and arranged for dinner. The woman, Barrake, 
who had discovered that she was not a wife, but a servant, had got 
over the disappointment, and was now making dhurra cakes upon the 
dobra. This is a round earthenware tray, about eighteen inches in 
diameter, which supported upon three stones or lumps of earth, over 
a fire of glowing embers, forms a hearth. Slices of liver, well peppered 
with cayenne and salt, were grilling on the gridiron, and we were pre- 
paring to dine when a terrific roar within a hundred and fifty yards 
informed us that a lion was also thinking of dinner. A confusion of 
tremendous roars proceeding from several lions followed the first sound, 
and my Aggageers quietly remarked : '' There is no danger for the 
horses to-night j the lions have found your wounded buffalo." 

Such a magnificent chorus of bass voices I had never heard ; the 
jungle cracked, as with repeated roars. They dragged the carcase of 
the buftalo through the thorns to the spot where they intended to de- 
vour it. 

That which was music to our ears was discord to that of Mahomet, 
who, with terror in his face, came to us and exclaimed : " Master, 



Head.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 911 

what's that ? What for master and the missus come to this bad 
country ? That's one bad kind will eat the missus in the night ? 
Perhaps he come and eat Mahomet." This after-thought was too 
much for him, and Bacheet immediately comforted him by telling the 
most horrible tales of death and destruction that had been wrought 
by lions, until the nerves of Mahomet were completely unhinged. 

This was a signal for story-teUing, when suddenly the Aggageers 
changed the conversation by a few tales of the Base natives, which so 
thoroughly eclipsed the dangers of wild beasts, that in a short time the 
entire party would almost have welcomed a lion, provided he would 
only have agreed to protect them from the Base. In this very spot 
where we were then camped, a party of A.rab hunters had, two years 
previous, been surprised at night and killed by the Base, who still 
boasted of the swords that they possessed as spoils from that occasion. 
The Base knew this spot as the favourite resting-place of the Hamean 
hunting-parties, and they might be not far distant now, as we were in 
the heart of their country. This intelligence was a regular damper to 
the spirits of some of the party. Mahomet quietly retired and sat down 
by Barrake, the ex-slave woman, having expressed a resolution to 
keep awake every hour that he should be compelled to remain in that 
horrible country. The lions roared louder and louder, but no one 
appeared to notice such small thunder, all thoughts were fixed 
upon the Base, so thoroughly had the Aggageers succeeded in 
frightening not only Mahomet, but also our Tokrooris. — Nile Tri- 
butaries of Abyssinia, chap xii. 



355.— CLIMATE OF PARIS COMPARED WITH THAT OF LONDON. 

[Sib Francis Bond Head, Bart., 1793. 

[Sir Francis Head was born at Rochester, Kent, 1793. He entered the Royal En- 
gineers, and when a captain in that body he took charge of an association which 
started in 1825 to work the silver mines in South America. Leaving his companions 
at the foot of the Andes, he returned to Buenos Ayres across the Pampas alone, on 
horseback — a distance of a thousand miles. Altogether he rode six thousand miles 
on his different journeys. On his return to London he published, " Rough Notes of 
a Journey across the Pampas." He gained his majority in 1835, ^"^ ^^^t year, while 
holding the office of Assistant Poor Law Commissioner in the county of Kent, he was 
appointed by Lord Glenelg Governor of Upper Canada. Here, under great difficulties, 
he suppressed a rebellion, and repelled the invasion of large bodies of American sym- 
pathizers. For these services he was created a baronet in 1838. Sir Francis Head's 
chief works are, " Rough Notes, &c.," " Bubbles from the Brunnens of Nassau," 
"Life of Bruce," "Stokers and Pokers," "Ireland," "Faggot of French Sticks," 
" The Engineer," &c. &c.] 

In London, and even in England, people accustomed from their in- 
fancy to that moist healthy climate which gives verdure to animal 



912 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Head. 

life, red and white roses to the cheeks of our peasantry and to those of 
their lovely children, are really not aware that, under all circum- 
stances, and at all periods of the year, they are living, in the country in 
a mist, and in London in an atmosphere of smoke, of more or less 
density. It is true, often in the country, and even in the metropolis, 
we have bright sunshiny days, in which we talk of the air being 
beautifully clear j but between the air of England and of Paris there is 
as much difference in clearness as between the colour of the water in 
the straits between Dover and Calais and that of the Atlantic and 
Pacific Oceans, in which the blue sky of heaven appears to be re- 
flected. 

But not only does the air of Paris possess a clearness I have never 
seen exceeded, or scarcely equalled, in any other portion of the globe, 
but from the absence of mist and smoke it is enabled to receive, and 
it evidently does contain, infinitely more light than can possibly find 
room to exist in the moist "half and half" air and water atmosphere 
of England. In the broad streets, in the great squares, and espe- 
cially from the gritty asphalt pavement of the Place de Concorde, the 
reverberation of a superabundance of light generates green goggles for 
old eyes, crows' feet around middle-aged ones, and for a few moments 
owering eyebrows, even above young ones. 

But it is in the poorest parts of Paris this remarkable amount of 
light, of dryness, and of clearness of the atmosphere, are most striking. 
Indeed, as I followed Dr. McCarty, I remarked in every street we 
entered, that, as far as the eye could reach, there was apparently no 
difference whatever between the clear air on the pavement and 
that of the heavens over our head. Every distant moving object, every 
carriage; every horse, every man, every woman, every child, every dog, 
and every cat that, chased by the dog, scampered across the street, was 
as clearly visible as if it had passed close to us. In fact, the air was so 
clear that distance appeared unable, as in England, to dissolve the in- 
teresting picture which every street and alley we entered brought to 
view. 

As in the case of the difference of dress, it must however be con- 
sidered that, although the cleanness I have described gives a charm, a 
cheerfulness, and a transcendent beauty to the streets of Paris, there 
may, and I believe there does, lie lurking within it an amount of 
impurity which, although it be invisible, renders Paris on the whole 
infinitely less healthy than London. Without tracing the various bad 
smells which proceed from almost every floor of almost every house 
to their impure sources, it is evident that in the aggregate they must 
contaminate, although they do not discolour j and it is no doubt for 
this reason — from the continued prevalence of this invisible agent — 



Keble.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 913 

in fact, from inferior sanitary arrangements, and especially from 
defective drainage — that, while the comparative mortality of the popu- 
lation of London exceeding two millions, is 2"^ per cent., the mortality 
of the population of Paris, rather less than one million, is y^ per 
cent. Again, while the ravages of the cholera in London were in the 
proportion of 14*601 per cent, in Paris they were \y\g6 per cent. 

The total average deaths in Paris are from 28,000 to 30,000 annually, 
which, in a population of 900,000, gives about i in 30. 

The deaths in London, varying from i in 28 in Whitechapel, to 
I in 56 in Hackney, average for the whole population 1 in 42 — that 
is to say, about one-fourth less than at Paris : and thus, from inferior 
sanitary arrangements, there die annually in clear bright Paris about 
7000 persons more than, out of the same amount of population, die in 
smoky London. 

But although I summoned these statistics into my mind to prevent 
it being led astray by appearances which might be deceitful, yet I 
must own it was my impression, and I believe that of Lord Ashley, 
that the poverty we had come to witness bore no comparison what- 
ever to that recklessness of personal appearance, that abject wretched- 
ness, that squalid misery, which — dressed in the cast-ofF tattered 
garments of our aristocracy and wealthy classes, and in clothes per- 
forated with holes not to be seen among the most savage tribes — 
Ireland annually pours out upon England, and which, in the crowded 
courts and alleys of London I have so often visited, produce among 
our own people, as it were by infection which no moral remedy has 
yet been able to cure, scenes not only revolting as well as discreditable 
to human nature, but which are to be witnessed in no other portion, 
civilized or uncivilized, of the globe. — Faggot of French Sticks. The 
Poor of Paris, 



356.— RESIGNATION. 

[The Rev. John Keble, 1789 — 1866. 
[John Keble was born in 1789. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, 
of which he was scholar, and where he graduated B.A.. in first-class honours in 
18 10. Soon afterwards he was elected Fellow of Oriel College, where he was the 
contemporary and friend of Dr. Arnold. He remained for some time tutor at Oriel 
College, and public Examiner in the University; was appointed finally Professor 
of Poetry, and preferred to the rectory of Hursley, near Winchester. In 181 2 he 
gained the Chancellor's prize for an Essay on "Translation from the Dead 
Languages ;" but his great work, one of the most popular ever published, is the 
"Christian Year," well known in every English home. We are indebted to him, 
also, for the "Lyra Innocentium" (1847), "The Psalms of David in English 
Verse," and "The Child's Christian Year." Mr. Keble also published " Praeloc- 

3 N 



914 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Keble. 

tiones Academicae," " Sermons on Primitive Tradition," " Sermons, Academical and 
Occasional," and many tracts on ecclesiastical subjects. Keble died in 1866.J 

Lord my God, do Thou thy holy will — 

I will lie still— 

1 will not stir, lest I forsake thine arm. 

And break the charm 
Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast. 
In perfect rest. 

"Wild Fancy, peace ! thou must not me beguile 

With thy false smile : 
I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways ; 

Be silent. Praise, 
Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all 

That hear thy call. 

Come, Self-devotion, high and pure. 
Thoughts that in thankfulness endure. 
Though dearest hopes are faithless found. 
And dearest hearts are bursting round. • 
Come, Resignation, spirit meek. 
And let me kiss thy placid cheek. 
And read in thy pale eye serene 
Their blessing, who by faith can wean 
Their hearts from sense, and learn to love 
God only, and the joys above. 
They say, who know the life divine. 
And upward gaze with eagle eyne. 
That by each golden crown on high. 
Rich with celestial jewelry. 
Which for our Lord's redeem'd is set. 
There hangs a radiant coronet. 
All gemm'd with pure and living light. 
Too dazzling for a sinner's sight, 
Prepar'd for virgin souls, and them 
Who seek the martyr's diadem. 

Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire. 

Must win their way through blood and fire. 

The writhings of a wounded heart 

Are fiercer than a foeman's dart. 

Oft in Life's stillest shade reclining. 

In Desolation unrepining. 

Without a hope on earth to find 

A mirror in an answering mind. 



Keble.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 915 

Meek souls there are, who little dream 
Their daily strife an Angel's theme. 
Or that the rod they take so calm 
Shall prove in Heaven a martyr's palm. 

And there are souls that seem to dwell 

Above this earth — so rich a spell 

Floats round their steps, where'er they move. 

From hopes fulfilled, and mutual love. 

Such, if on high their thoughts are set. 

Nor in the stream the source forget. 

If prompt to quit the bliss they know. 

Following the Lamb where'er He go. 

By purest pleasures unbeguiled 

To idolize or wife or child j 

Such wedded souls our God shall own 

For faultless virgins round his throne. 

Thus everywhere we find our suffering God, 

And where he trod 
May set our steps : the Cross on Calvary 

Uplifted high 
Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light 

In open fight. 

To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart 

He doth impart 
The virtue of his midnight agony. 

When none was nigh. 
Save God and one good angel, to assuage 

The tempest's rage. 

Mortal ! if life smile on thee, and thou find 

All to thy mind. 
Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend. 

Thee to befriend : 
So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call. 

Thy best, thine all. 

" O Father ! not my will, but thine be done " — 

So spake the Son. 
Be this our charm, mellowing Earth's ruder noise 

Of griefs and joys j 
That we may cling for ever to thy breast 

In perfect rest ! 

— The Christian Year. Wednesday before Easter. 
3 N 2 



9i6 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Melvill. 



357-— NATIONAL RESPONSIBILITY. 

[The Rev. Henry Melvill, B.D., 1800. 

[The Rev. Henry Melvill, younger son of the late Philip Melvill, Esq., was 
born about the year 1800, and was educated at Christ's Hospital, whence he pro- 
ceeded as a Grecian to St. John's College, Cambridge] graduated B.A. in 1821, and 
became a Fellow and Tutor of St. Peter's College. Mr. Melvill is distinguished as 
a popular preacher. The Duke of Wellington, in 1840, appointed him Chaplain of 
the Tower of London and Incumbent of the church within its walls. He was sub- 
sequently elected to the Golden Lectureship of St. Margaret's, Lothbury, which he 
resigned on becoming a Canon of St. Paul's, in 1856. He is the author of " Sermons 
preached before the University of Cambridge," "Sermons preached on Public 
Occasions," &c. &c/]- 

We know of a land for which God hath done more, than for any other 
on which the sun shines, as he makes the circuit of the globe. It is a 
land which hath been marvellously preserved from the incursions of 
enemies ; and whose valleys, whilst the rest of the earth was turned 
into one vast battle plain, never echoed with the tocsin of war. 

It is a land which, though inconsiderable in itself, has been raised to 
a greatness unequalled amongst nations, and whose fame is on every 
shore, whose fleets are on every sea, whose resources have seemed to 
grow with the demand -, of which every trial has but developed the 
unsuspected strength. And it is little that this land, by prowess in 
arms and wisdom in debate, has won itself a name of the mightiest 
renown, subdued kingdoms, planted colonies, and gathered into its 
harbours the commerce of the world. We know yet greater things of 
it. We know that Christianity, in all its parity, is publicly taught as 
the religion of the land ; that in its churches is proclaimed the life- 
giving doctrine of the One Mediator between God and Man, and that 
its civil institutions have all that beauty and all that expansiveness — 
which nothing but the Gospel of Christ was ever yet able to produce 
or preserve. 

But we have our fears — oh ! more than our fears — in regard to this 
land, that whilst it has thus been the recipient of unrivalled mercies, 
whilst Providence has watched over it, and shielded it, and poured 
upon it all that was choicest in the treasure house of Heaven, there 
has been in it ingratitude, and a contempt of the Benefactor, and 
a growing distaste for religion, a pride, a covetousness, and a luxury, 
which have written many large figures in the register which God keeps 
of nations j so that though the land is still borne with, yea, still abun- 
dantly blessed, it has made vast approaches towards that fulness of 
iniquity which the Amorite reached, and which the Israelite reached, 
but reached only 10 perish. 

God forbid that we should say of the country to which we have 



Lytton.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 017 

referred (whatever its sins), that as yet it hath made void the laws of 
its Maker. We hope better things of it ; we hope that there 
is yet such vigour in its piety as will give fixedness to what is venerable 
and precious in its institutions. Bat we are sure that with the purity 
of its Christianity must stand or fall the majesty of its empire. We 
are sure that it is as the home of Protestantism, the centre of truth, 
that God hath honoured and upheld the land of which we speak, and 
that the rapid way of multiplying the figures, which may already be 
portentous in its account, would be the surrendering its Protestantism, 
and the giv^ing, in any way, countenance to Popery. Oh, if it could 
ever come to pass, that, acting on the principles of a short-sighted 
policy, the rulers of the land in question should restore his lost ascen- 
dancy to the man of sin, and take under the patronage and protection 
of the State that religion which prophecy has unequivocally denounced, 
and in wresthng against which a pious ancestry met death in its most 
terrible shapes ; then, indeed, may we think, the measure of its guilt 
would be full 3 then, in the national apostacy might be read the 
advance of national ruin — yea, then, we believe — the protest of a 
witness for truth being no longer given — then would be heard a voice 
issuing from the graves of martyrs and confessors, with which the land 
is covered, and from the souls which St. John saw beneath the altar, 
when the fifth seal was opened, " that were slain for the W^ord of God, 
and for the testimony which they held," and these would be the words 
which the voice would utter, " It is time for thee. Lord, to work, for 
they have made void Thy law." — Sermon preached, in 1835, ^^ Psalm 
119, v. 126. 



358.— LOVE OF NATURE IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 

[Lord Lytton. 

[Lord Lytton is equally great as novelist, dramatist, and essayist. An extract from 
one of his best novels forms the second reading in this volume. The reader will, 
we believe, be pleased with a second extract, taken from his delightful essays, which 
compete with his fictions, and by some will be even deemed superior to them.] 

There was one period of my life when I considered every hour spent 
out of capitals as time wasted — when, with exhilarated spirits, I would 
return from truant loiterings under summer trees to the smoke and 
din of London thoroughfares : I loved to hear the ring of my own 
tread on the hard pavement. The desire to compete and to combat 
— the thirst for excitements opening one upon the other in the upward 
march of an opposed career — the study of man in his thickest haunts 
— the heart's warm share in the passions which the mind, clear from 



9i8 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Lytton. 

their inebriety, paused to analyse, — these gave to me, as they give to 
most active men in the unflagging energies of youth, a delight in the 
vista of gas-lam.ps, and the hubbub of the great mart for the inter- 
change of ideas. But now — I love the country as 1 did when a little 
child, before I had admitted into my heart that ambition which is the 
first fierce lesson we learn at school. Is it, partly, that those trees 
never remind us that we are growing old ? Older than we are, their 
hollow stems are covered with rejoicing leaves. The birds build 
among their bowering branches rather than in the lighter shade of the 
sapHng. Nature has no voice that wounds the self-love : her coldest 
wind nips no credulous affection. She alone has the same faith in our 
age as in our youth. The friend with whom we once took sweet 
counsel we have left in the crowd, a stranger — perhaps a foe ! The 
woman in whose eyes, some twenty years ago, a paradise seemed to 
open in the midst of a fallen world, we passed the other day with a 
frigid bow. She wore rouge and false hair. But those wild flowers 
under the hedgerow — those sparkles in the happy waters — no friend- 
ship has gone from them ! — their beauty has no simulated freshness-— 
their smile has no fraudulent deceit. 

But there is a deeper truth than all this, in the influence which 
Nature gains over us in proportion as life withdraws itself from struggle 
and contention. We are placed on earth for a certain period to fulfil, 
according to our several conditions and degrees of mind, those duties 
by which the earth's history is carried on. Desk and warehouse, 
factory and till, forum and senate, schools of science and art, arms and 
letters — by these we beautify and enrich our common habitation -, by 
these we defend, bind together, exalt, the destinies of our common 
race. And during this period the mind is wisely fitted less to contem- 
plate than to act — less to repose than to toil. The great stream of 
worldly life needs attrition along its banks in order to maintain the 
law that regulates the movement of its waves. But when that period 
of action approaches towards its close, the soul, for which is decreed 
an existence beyond the uses of earth — an existence aloof from 
desk and warehouse, factory and till, forum and senate, schools of 
science and art, arms and letters — gradually relaxes its hold of former 
objects, and, insensibly perhaps to itself, is attracted nearer towards 
the divine source of all being, in the increasing witchery by which 
Nature, distinct from man, reminds it of its independence of the crowd 
from which it begins to re-emerge. 

And, in connexion with this spiritual process, it is noticeable how 
intuitively in age we go back with strange fondness to all that is fresh 
in the earliest dawn of youth. If we never cared for little children 
before, we delight to see them roll in the grass over which we hobble 



Morgan.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 919 

on crutches. The grandsire turns wearil7 from his middle-aged care- 
worn son, to listen with infant laugh to the prattle of an infant grand- 
child. It is the old who plant young trees 3 it is the old who are 
most saddened by the autumn, and feel most delight in the returning 
spring. 

And, in the exquisite delicacy with which hints of the invisible 
eternal future are conveyed to us, may not that instinctive sympathy, 
with which life in age rounds its completing circle towards the point 
at which it touches the circle of life in childhood, be a benign intima- 
tion that 

*' Death is nought 
But the soul's birth — and so we should it call ?"* 

And may there be no meaning more profound than the obvious inter- 
pretation in the sacred words, " Make yourselves as little children, for 
of such is the kingdom of heaven " ? — Caxtoniana, vol. i. Essay I. 



359.— THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER. 

[Lady Morgan, 1783 — 1859. 

[Sydney Owenson, Lady Morgan, was born in Dublin, 1783. She was the 
daughter of a musician of some repute in that city. Lady Morgan published a 
volume of poems and songs set to Irish airs at the age of fourteen, and at sixteen 
she was the authoress of two novels; but it was her third novel, "The Wild Irish 
Girl,'' published in 1801, which at once made her popular as a writer, and introduced 
her to the highest circle of English society. She met Sir Charles Morgan, a physician 
of some eminence, at the house of the Marquis of Abercorn, co. Tyrone, and was 
married to him in 1812. Lady Morgan spent three years in France at the conclusion 
of the war, and in 1818 she published "France," a review of the social condition of 
that country. This book was successful in England, but led to a decision on the 
part of the French Government to refuse her re-admission to their land. " Florence 
Macarthy" was published in England during her stay in France, and increased 
her reputation. Her other works are, " Life and Times of Salvator Rosa," " Woman 
and her Master," " Book of the Boudoir," &c. Lady Morgan received a pension of 
300Z. a year from the Civil List. She died in 1859. Her "Letters," &c., were 
edited and published by William Hepworth Dixon, Esq., in 1862.] 

The breaking up of the academy took place as I approached it : a 
bevy of rough-headed students, with books as ragged as their habi- 
liments, rushed forth at the sound of the horse's feet, and with hands 
shading their uncovered faces from the sun, stood gazing in earnest 
surprise at the unexpected visitant. Last of this singular group, 
followed O'Leary himself in learned dishabille ! his customary suit, 
an old great-coat, fastened with a wooden skewer at his breast, the 



* " On the Origin, Nature, and Immortality of the Soul." — Sir John Davis. 



920 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Morgan. 

sleeves hanging unoccupied, Spanish-wise, as he termed it ; his wig 
laid aside^ the shaven crown of his head resembling the clerical 
tonsure ; a tattered Homer in one hand, and a slip of sallow in the 
other, with which he had been distributing some well-earned punities 
to his pupils J thus exhibiting, in appearance, and in the important 
expression of his countenance, an epitome of that order of persons 
once so numerous, and still far from extinct in Ireland, the hedge 
schoolmaster. O'Leary was learned in the antiquities and genealogies 
of the great Irish families, as an ancient senachy,* an order of which 
he believed himself to be the sole representative.^ credulous of her 
fables, and jealous of her ancient glory j ardent in his feelings, fixed 
in his prejudices j hating the Bodei Sassoni, or English churls, in pro- 
portion as he distrusted them j living only in the past, contemptuous 
of the present, and hopeless of the future, all his national learning 
and national vanity were employed in his history of the Macarthies 
More, to whom he deemed himself hereditary senachy ; while all his 
early associations and affections were occupied with the Fitzadelin 
family 3 to an heir of which he had not only been foster-father, but, 
by a singular chain of occurrences, tutor and host. Thus, there 
existed an incongruity between his prejudices and his affections, that 
added to the natural incoherence of his wild, unregulated, ideal 
character He had as much Greek and Latin as generally falls to the 
lot of the inferior Irish priesthood, an order to which he had been 
originally destined ; he spoke Irish, as his native tongue, with great 
fluency; and English with little variation, as it might have been 
spoken in the days of James or Elizabeth 3 for English was with him 
acquired by study, at no early period of life, and principally obtained 
from such books as came within the black-letter plan of his antiquarian 
pursuits. 

" Words that wise Bacon, and grave Raleigh spoke/* 

were familiarly uttered by O'Leary, conned out of old English tracts, 
chronicles, presidential instructions, copies of patents, memorials, dis- 
courses, and translated remonstrances from the Irish chiefs, of every 
date since the arrival of the English in the island ; and a few French 
words, not unusually heard among the old Irish Catholics, the 
descendants of the faithful followers of the Stuarts, completed the 
stock of his philological riches. 

O'Leary now advanced to meet his visitant, with a countenance 
radiant with the expression of complacency and satisfaction, not un- 
niingled with pride and importance, as he threw his eyes round on 



Antiquarian, genealogist, and historian. 



Morgan.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 921 

his numerous disciples. To one of these the Commodore gave his 
horse ; and drawing his hat over his eyes, as if to shade them from 
the sun, he placed himself under the shadow of the Saxon arch, 
observing — 

*' You see, Mr. O'Leary, I very eagerly avail myself of your invita- 
tion ; but I fear I have interrupted your learned avocation." 

" Not a taste, your honour, and am going to give my classes a 
holiday, in respect of the turf, sir. — What do's yez all crowd the 
gentleman for ? Did never yez see a raal gentleman afore ? I'd 
trouble yez to consider yourselves as temporary. There's great 
scholars among them ragged runagates, your honour, poor as they 
look ; for tho' in these degendered times you wont get the children, 
as formerly, to talk the dead languages, afore they can spake, when, 
says Campion, they had Latin like a vulgar tongue, conning in their 
schools of teachcraft the aphorisms of Hippocrates, and the civil 
institutes of the faculties, yet there's as fine scholars, and as good 
philosophers still, sir, to be found in my seminary as in Trinity College, 
Dublin. Now, step forward here, you Homers. ' Kehlute meu Troes, 
kai Dardanoi, id epikouroi.' " 

Half a dozen overgrown boys, with bare heads and naked feet, 
hustled forw^ard. 

" There's my first class, plaze your honour] sorrow one of them 
gassoons but would throw you off a page of Homer into Irish while 
he'd be clamping a turf stack. Come forward here, Padreen Mahony, 
you little mitcher, ye. Have you no better courtesy than that, Padreen ? 
Fie upon your manners ! Then for all that, sir, he's my head philo- 
sopher, and am getting him up for Maynooth. Och ! then, I 
wouldn't axe better than to pit him against the provost of Trinity 
College this day, for all his ould small-clothes, sir, the cratur ! Troth, 
he'd puzzle him, grate as he is, aye, and bate him too ; that's at the 
humanities, sir. Padreen, my man, if the pig's sould at Dunore 
market to-morrow, tell your daddy, dear, I'll expect the pintion. Is 
that your bow, Padreen, with your head under your arm, like a 
roosting hen ? Upon my word I take shame for your manners. 
There, your honour, them's my cordaries, the little Leprehauns,* with 
their cathah f heads, and their burned skins 5 I think your honour 
would be divarted to hear them parsing a chapter. Well, now dis- 
miss, lads, jewel — off with yez, extemplo, like a piper out of a tent j 
away with yez to the turf: and mind me well, ye Homers, ye, I'll 
expect Hector and Andromache to-morrow without fail ; obsatve me 

* Leprehauns, one of the inferior order of Irish demonology. 
f Cathah, curly or matted. 



922 THE EVERY-DAY BOOK [Dixon. 

well, I'll take no excuse for the classics barring the bog, in respect of 
the weather's being dry; dismiss, I say." 

The learned disciples of this Irish sage, puUing down the front lock 
of their hair to designate the bow they would have made, if they had 
possessed hats to move, now scampered off: while O'Leary observed, 
shaking his head, and looking after them : '^ Not one of them but is 
sharp-witted, and has a ganius for poethry, if there was any encourage- 
ment for larning in these degendered times." — Florence Macarthy. 



360.— THE WATER-GATE OF THE TOWER. 

[William Hepworth Dixon, 1821. 

[W: Hepworth Dixon, the son of Abner Dixon, Esq., of Holmfirtli and Kirk- 
Burton, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, was born in 182 1. He is descended from 
an old Puritan family. In consequence of ill-health he was not able to go to 
school, but was sent to live with his grand-uncle at a farm-house on the moors of 
Over Darwin. Mr. Dixon began his literary life by writing a five-act tragedy, but he did 
not publish it. He was for some time the literary editor of a Cheltenham paper ; but 
in 1846 he came to London, and entered a student at the Inner Temple. Mr. Dixon 
henceforward contributed to the chief periodicals, and wrote a series of papers in the 
Daily News, on ''The Literature of the Lower Orders," which were precursors of 
Mayhew's " Inquiries into the Condition of the Poor," To the same paper Mr. 
Dixon also contributed his "London Prisons," republished in i vol. In 1849 ^^ 
published "John Howard, a Biography," three editions of which were sold in one 
year. In 1851 and 1852 appeared his biographies of Penn and Blake. In 1850 Mr. 
Dixon was appointed a deputy commissioner to the Royal Commission for carrying 
out the Great Exhibition of 1851, and organized one hundred committees out of the 
three hundred that were appointed. When Mr. Madden projected his " Prize Maga- 
zine," Mr. Dixon contributed the essays which won the two highest prizes; they 
attracted the attention of the proprietor of iht AthencBum, and heat once requested 
their author to become one of the staff of that paper. In r853 he became its editor. 
Mr. Dixon's chief works are, " The Holy Land," " New America," " Spiritual 
Wives," &c. &c., and " Her Majesty's Tower." The last-named work is one of the 
noblest and most delightful records of England's past history ever published.] 

It is London, in the reign of Bluff King Hal — the husband of two 
fair wives. The river is alive with boats ; the air is white with smoke ; 
the sun overhead is burning with golden May. Thousands on thou- 
sands of spectators dot the banks 3 for to-day a bride is coming home 
to the King, the beauty of whose face sets old men's fancies and young 
men's eyes agog. On the wharf, near the Queen's Stair, stands a 
burly figure 3 tall beyond common men ; broad in chest and strong in 
limb ; dressed in a doublet of gold and crimson, a cap and plume, 
shoes with rosettes and diamonds, a dagger by his side, a George upon 
his breast. It is the King, surrounded by dukes and earls, awaiting 
the arrival of a barge, in the midst of blaring trumpets and exploding 



Dixon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 923 

sakers. A procession sweeps along j stealing up from Greenwich, 
with plashing oars and merry strains j fifty great boats, with a host of 
wherries on their flanks 3 a vessel firing guns in front, and a long arrear 
of craft behind. 

From the first barge lands the Lord Mayor 3 from the second trips 
the bride ; from the rest stream out the picturesque City Companies. 
Cannons roar, and bells fling out a welcome to the Queen j for this 
is not simply a great day in the story of one lovely woman ; but a 
great day in the glory of English life. Now is the morning time of a 
new era 5 for on this bright May — 

" The Gospel light first shines from Boleyn^s eyes,** 

and men go mad with hope of things which are yet to come. 

The King catches that fair young bride in his arms, kisses her soft 
cheek, and bears her in through the By-ward Tower. 

The picture fades from view and presently re-appears. Is it the 
same ? The Queen — the stair — the barge — the crowd of men — all 
these are here. Yet the pretence is not the same. No burly Henry 
stands by the stair 3 no guns disturb the sky 5 no blast of trumpets 
greets the royal barge ; no train of aldermen and masters wait upon 
the Queen. The lovely face looks older by a dozen years ; yet scarcely 
■three have passed since that fair form was clasped in the King's arms, 
kissed, and carried by the bridge. This time she is a prisoner, charged 
with having done such things as pen cannot write : things which would 
be treason, not to her lord only, but to her womanhood, and to the 
King of kings. 

When she alights on the Queen's Stair, she turns to Sir William 
Kingston, Constable of the Tower, and asks, **Must I go into a 
dungeon ?" " No, Madam," says the Constable j "you will lie in the 
same room which you occupied before." She falls on her knees. " It 
is too good for me," she cries 3 and then weeps for a long time, lying 
on the cold stones, with all the people standing by in tears. She begs 
to have the Sacrament in her own room, that she may pray with a 
pure heart ; saying she is free from sin, and that she is, and has always 
been, the King's true wedded wife. 

"Shall I die without justice?" she inquires. "Madam," says 
Kingston, "the poorest subject would have justice." The lady only 
laughs a feeble laugh. 

Other and not less tragic scenes drew crowds to the Waterway 
from the Thames. 

Beneath this arch has moved a long procession of our proudest 
peers, our fairest women, our bravest soldiers, our wittiest peers — 
Buckingham and Strafford 3 Lady Jane Grey, the Princess Elizabeth 3 



924 THE EFERY.DAY BOOK [Dixon. 

William Wallace, David Bruce, Surrey, Raleigh — names in which the 
splendour, poetry, and sentiment of our national glory are embalmed. 
Most of them left it, high in rank and rich in life, to return by the same 
dark passage, in a few brief hours, poorer than the beggars who stood 
shivering on the bank ; in the eyes of the law, and in the words of 
their fellows, already dead. 

From this gateway went the barge of that Duke of Buckingham, 
the rival of Wolsey, the last permanent High Constable of England. 
Buckingham had not dreamed that an offence so slight as his could 
bring into the dust so proud a head 3 for his offence was nothing ; 
some silly words which he had bandied in the "Rose," a City tavern, 
about the young King's journey into France. He could not see that 
his head was struck because it moved so high j nay, his proud boast 
that if his enemies sent him to the Tower, ten thousand friends would 
storm the v/alls to set him free, was perhaps the occasion of his fall. 
When sentence of death was given he marched back to his barge, 
where Sir Thomas Lovel, then Constable, stood ready to hand him to 
the seat of honour. "Nay," said the Duke to Lovel, "not so now. 
When I came to Westminster I was Lord High Constable and Duke 
of Buckingham, now I am but poor Edward Stafford." 

Landing at the Temple Stair, he was marched along Fleet Street, 
through St. Paul's Churchyard, and by way of Cheap to the Tower; 
the axe borne before him all the way; Sir William Sandys holding 
him by the right arm. Sir Nicholas Vaux by the left. A band of 
Augustine friars stood praying round the block ; and when his head 
had fallen into the dust they bore his remains to St. Austin's Church. 

On these steps, too, beneath this Water-gate, Elizabeth, then a young 
fair girl, with gentle, feminine face and golden hair, was landed by her 
jealous sister's servants. The day was Sunday — Palm Sunday — with a 
cold March rain coming down, and splashing the stones with mud. 
She could not land without soiling her feet and clothes, and for a 
moment she refused to leave her barge. Sir John Gage, the Con- 
stable, and his guards, stood by to receive her. " Are all these har- 
nessed men forme r" she asked. "No, Madam," said Sir John. "Yea," 
she replied, "I know it is so." Then she stood up in her boat and 
leaped on shore. As she set foot on the stone steps, she exclaimed 
in a spirit prouder than her looks — for in her youth she had none of 
that leonine beauty of her later years — " Here landeth as true a subject, 
being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs ; and before Thee, O 
God, I speak it." Perhaps she was thinking of her mother, who landed 
on the neighbouring wharf. Anne had fallen on her knees on these 
cold stones, and here had called on God to help her, as she was not 
guilty of the things of which she was accused. In those two attitudes 



Wraxall.] OF MODERN LITERATURE, 925 

of appeal one reads the nature of these two proud and gentle women, 
each calling Heaven to witness her innocence of crime — Elizabeth de- 
fiant, erect 3 Anne suppliant, on her knees. — Her Majesty's Tower, 
chap. iii. 

/ 



361.— STRUENSEE. 
[Sir Nathaniel William Wraxall, 1751 — 1831. 
[Sir Nathaniel William Wraxall was born at Bristol, 1751. He entered the 
Service of the East India Company in his youth, but returned to Europe in 1772, 
and afterwards travelled for several years on the continent. He was sent on a private 
mission from the unhappy Caroline Matilda, Queen of Denmark, to her brother, 
George III. In 1780 he was returned to Parliament, when he supported Pitt. In 
18 1 3 he was created a baronet. He died at Dover in 1831. His principal works 
are, " Cursory Remarks made in a Tour through the Northern Parts of Europe," 
" Memoirs of the Courts of Berlin, Dresden, Warsaw, and Vienna," '* Historical 
Memoirs of my own Times," &c. &c.] 

Struensee had not any noble blood in his veins, nor consequently 
any hereditary and prescriptive title to the immediate guidance of 
affairs of State. Fortune, and a train of peculiar circumstances, coin- 
ciding with his own talents and address, seem to have drawn him from 
his native mediocrity of condition, and placed him in an elevated rank. 
He originally practised physic at Altona on the Elbe, and afterwards 
attended the King of Denmark on his travels into England, in 
quality of physician. On his return, he advanced by rapid strides in 
the royal favour, and seems to have eminently possessed the powers of 
pleasing, since he became equally the favourite of both the king and 
queen. He was invested with the order of St. Matilda, instituted in 
honour of her majesty, created a count, and possessed unlimited minis- 
terial power. His conduct, in this sudden and uncommon eminence, 
marks a bold and daring mind ; perhaps I might add, an expanded 
and patriotic heart. Unawed by the precarious tenure of courtly 
greatness, and more peculiarly of his own, he began a general reform. 
The state felt him through all her members. The finances, chancery, 
army, navy, nobles, peasants — all were sensible of his influence. He 
not only dictated, but penned his replies to every important question 
or despatch ; and a petition, or a scheme of public import and utility, 
rarely waited two hours for an answer. At present, I am told, you 
may be two months without receiving any. The civil judication of 
this capital was then vested in thirty magistrates. Struensee sent a 
message to this tribunal, demanding to know the annual salary or 
pension annexed to each member. Rather alarmed at this inquiry, 
they sent an answer, in which they dimini.shed their emoluments two- 



926 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Wraxall, 

thirds, and estimated them at i^oo, instead of 4000 rix-dolJars. The 
count then informed them that his Majesty had no further occasion 
for their services 3 but in his royal munificence and Uberality, was 
graciously pleased to continue to them the third part of their avowed 
incomes, as a proof of his satisfaction with their conduct. He at the 
same time constituted another court, composed only of six persons of 
approved integrity, to whom the same power was delegated. He 
proceeded to purge the chancery, and other bodies of the law. Then 
entering on the military department, he, at one stroke, broke all the 
horse-guards, and afterwards the regiment of Norwegian foot-guards, 
the finest corps of the service, and who were not disbanded without a 
short, but very dangerous sedition. Still proceeding in this salutary, 
but most critical and perilous achievement, he ultimately began to 
attempt a diminution of the power of the nobles, and to set the farmers 
and peasants at perfect liberty. We must not, therefore, wonder that 
he fell a victim to such measures, and that all parties joined in his 
destruction. These were his real crimes, and not that he was too 
acceptable to the queen, which only formed a pretext. It was the 
minister, and not the man, who had became obnoxious. I do not 
pretend, in the latter capacity, either to excuse or condemn him ; but 
as a politician, I rank him with the Clarendons and the Mores, whom 
tyranny, or pubhc baseness, and want of virtue, have brought, in 
almost every age, to an untimely and ignominious exit ; but to whose 
memory impartial posterity have done ample justice. Yet I must avow, 
that though I cannot think Struensee made a bad use, he certainly 
made a violent and imprudent one, of his extensive power. He seems, 
if one may judge from his actions, to have been in some measure 
intoxicated with royal favour and such accumulated honours, and not 
to have adverted sufficiently to the examples which history furnishes 
of Wolseys in former days, and of Choiseuls in modern times, who 
most strikingly evince the slippery foundation of pohtical grandeur. 
When he was even pressed only a short time before his seizure, to 
withdraw from court, and pass the Belts, with the most ample security 
for his annual remitment of forty, fifty, a hundred thousand dollars, an 
unhappy fascination detained him, in defiance of every warning, and 
reserved him for the prison and the block. The Queen Dowager and 
Prince Frederic were only the feeble instruments to produce this 
catastrophe, as being by their rank immediately about the person of 
the sovereign j though common report has talked loudly of the former's 
intrigue, and attributed it to her imaginary abilities. The only mark 
of capacity or address they exhibited, was in preserving a secresy, which 
deluded Struensee and the Queen Matilda, till the time of their being 
arrested. I have been assured, that on the last levee day preceding 



Timbs.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 927 

this event, the Count was habited with uncommon magnificence, and 
never received greater homage or court servility from the crowd, than 
when on the verge of ruin. On the night fixed for his seizure there 
was a lal pare in the palace j the Queen, after dancing as usual one 
country dance with the King, gave her hand to Struensee during the 
rest of the evening. She retired about two in the morning, and was 
followed by him and Count Brandt. The moment was now come. 
The Queen Dowager, and her son Prince Frederic, hastened to the 
King's private chamber, where he was already in bed. They kneeled 
down beside it, and implored him with tears and expostulations to save 
himself and Denmark from impending destruction, by arresting those 
whom they called the authors of it. 'Tis said the King was not easily 
induced to sign the order, but did it with reluctance and hesitation. 
At length their entreaties prevailed, and he affixed his sign manual to 
the paper. Colonel Koller Banner instantly repaired to Struensee's 
apartment, which, as well as Brandt's, was in the palace ; they were 
both seized nearly at the same instant, and, as all defence was vain, 
hurried immediately to the citadel. When Count Struensee stepped 
out of the coach, he said with a smile to the commandant, " I believe 
you are not a little surprised at seeing me brought here a prisoner." 
" No, and please your Excellence," replied the old officer, bluntly, 
*' I am not at all surprised, but, on the contrary, have long expected 
you." It was five o'clock in the morning when the Count Rantzau 
came to the door of her Majesty's ante-chamber, and knocked for 
admittance. One of the women about the Queen's person was ordered 
to wake her, and give her information that she was arrested. They 
then put her into one of the King's coaches, drove her down to Elsinor, 
and shut her up in the castle of Cronsberg. — Tour through the Northern 
Parts of Europe. 



362.— THE FIELD OF THE FORTY FOOTSTEPS. 

[John Times, 1801. 
[John Timbs was born in London, August 17, 1801. He was editor of the Mirror, 
one of the first of the cheap weekly publications. The Mirror obtained the notice 
and public praise of Lord Brougham. Mr. Timbs's works are, " The Curiosities of 
London," a compendium of antiquarian lore and general information, the result of 
nearly fifty years' patient and intelligent research; "Things Not Generally Known," 
"Curiosities of Literature," "Curiosities of Biography," "Schooldays of Eminent 
Men," "A Garland for the Year," "Lives of Wits and Humorists," "Year Book 
of Facts " (edited), and " Anecdote Biography." He was also chief working editor of 
the Illustrated London Neics. We extract a passage from Mr. Timbs's last work 
(still unpublished), entitled, " Castles, Abbeys, and Historic Houses."] 

Long Fields, in the rear of Montague House, appear to have been 
a place of superstitious haunt. Aubrey tells us that on St. John 



928 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Timbs. 

Baptist's Day, he saw, "at midnight, twenty-three young women in 
the parterre behind Montague House, looking for a coal under the root 
of a plantain, to put under their heads that night, and they should 
dream who would be their husbands." But there is a more terrible 
story of the place. A legendary tale of the period of the Duke of Mon- 
mouth's Rebellion relates a mortal conflict here between two brothers, 
on account of a lady, who sat by. The combatants fought so fero- 
ciously as to destroy each other j after which, their footsteps, imprinted 
on the ground in the vengeful struggle, were said to remain, with the 
indentations produced by their advancing and receding ; nor would any 
grass or vegetation ever grow over these forty footsteps. Miss Porter 
and her sister, upon this fiction, founded their ingenious romance, 
" Coming Out -, or, the Field of the Forty Footsteps 3" but they entirely 
depart from the local tradition. At the Tottenham Street Theatre 
was produced, many years since, an eiFective melodrama, founded upon 
the same incident. 

Southey relates the same story in his " Commonplace Book " (Second 
Series, p. 21). After quoting a letter from a friend, recommending 
him to " take a view of those wonderful marks of the Lord's hatred to 
duelling, called The Brothers' Steps/' and describing the locality, 
Southey thus narrates his own visit to the spot : "We sought for near 
half an hour in vain. We could find no steps at all within a quarter 
of a mile, no, nor half a mile, of Montague House. We were almost 
out of hope, when an honest man, who was at work, directed us to 
the next ground, adjoining to a pond. There we found what we 
sought, about three-quarters of a mile north of Montague House, and 
1500 yards east of Tottenham Court Road. The steps are of the size 
of a large human foot, about three inches deep, and lie nearly from 
north-east to south-west. We counted only seventy-six j but we 
were not exact in counting. The place where one or both the brothers 
are supposed to have fallen is still bare of grass. The labourer also 
showed us the bank where (the tradition is) the wretched woman sat 
to see the combat." Southey adds his full confidence in the tradition 
of the indestructibility of the steps, even after ploughing up, and of 
the conclusions to be drawn from the circumstance. 

Joseph Moser, in one of his " Commonplace Books," gives this 
account of the footsteps, just previous to their being built over : — " June 
16, 1800. Went into the fields at the back of Montague House, and 
there saw, for the last time, the forty footsteps y the building materials 
are there, ready to cover them from the sight of man. I counted 
more than forty, but they might be the footprints of the work- 
men." 

We agree with Dr. Rimbault that this evidence establishes the 



d 



Tennyson.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 929 

period' of the final demolition of the footsteps, and also confirms the 
legend that forty was the original number. 

In the third edition of " A Book for a Rainy Day," we find this 
note upon the above mysterious spot : — " Of these steps there are 
many traditionary stories : the one generally believed is, that two 
brothers were in love with a lady, who would not declare a preference 
for either, but coolly sat down upon a bank to witness the termination 
of a duel, which proved fatal to both. The bank, it is said, on which 
she sat, and the footmarks of the brothers when passing the ground, 
never produced grass again. The fact is, that these steps were so often 
trodden tliat it was impossible for the grass to grow. I have frequentlv 
passed over tiiem. .They were in a field on the site of St. Martin's 
Chapel, or very nearly so, and not on the spot as cormnunicated to Miss 
Porter, who has written an entertaining novel on the subject." — 
Castles, Alleys, and Historic Houses, their Legendary Lore, &:c., vol. i. 



363.— THE LADY CLARE. 

[Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate, 1809. 

[Alfred Tennyson, son of the late Rev. G. Tennyson, was born at his father's 
parsonage, at Somerby, in Lincolnshire, in 1809. His first poems appeared in 1830, 
and were republished in 1842. From that time the fame of Mr. Tennyson as a 
poet has steadily increased, and in 1850 he was justly appointed Poet Laureate. Mr, 
Tennvson's works are, " Poems " (2 vols.), 1842 ; " The Princess, a Medlev," 1847; 
"In Memoriam," 18:0; "Maud," &c., 18 ^5 ; "The Idylls of the King," 1858; 
"Enoch Arden," 1864; "The Holy Grail," 1869.] 

It was the time when lilies blow. 

And clouds are highest up in air. 
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 

To give his cousin. Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 

Lovers long-betrothed were they : 
They two will wed the morrow morn j 

God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not lo\x me for my birth. 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair j 

He loves me for my own true worth. 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice, the nurse, 

Said, "Who was this that went from thee?** 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
** To-morrow he weds with me." 
3 o 



930 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Tennyson, 

** Oh ! God be thanked !" said Alice, the nurse, 

** That all comes round so just and fair : 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 

And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are you out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ?" 
Said Lady Clare, '* that ye speak so wild ?" 

" As God's above," said Alice, the nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are my child. 

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast — 

I speak the truth as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

"Falsely, falsely have you done, 

Oh! mother," she said, " if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay, now, my child," said Alice, the nurse, 

" But keep the secret for your life. 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When you are man and wite." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 

"I will speak out, for I dare not liej 
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold. 

And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay, now, my child," said Alice, the nurse, 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said, " Not so : but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

"Nay, now, what faith?" said Alice, the nurse, 

" The man will cleave unto his right." 
"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 

"Though I should die to-night." 

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! 

Alas ! my child, I sinned for thee." 
"Oh ! mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yes, here's a kiss for my mother dear. 

My mother dear, if this be so. 
And lay your hand upon my head. 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 



Simeon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 931 

• She clad herself in a russet gown. 

She was no longer Lady Clare : 
She went by dale, and she went by down. 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 
And followed her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 
" Oh ! Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest like a village maid. 
That are the flower of the earth?" 

** If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

Oh ! and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail: 
She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes. 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn j 

He turned and kissed her where she stood : 

** If you are not the heiress born^ 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born. 

And I," said he, "the lawful heir. 
We two will wed to-morrow morn. 

And you shall still be Lady Clare." 

— Poems. 



^64.— BENEFITS DERIVED FROM A LITURGY OR FORM OF 
PRAYER. 

[Rev. Charles Simeon, 1759 — 1836. 

[The Rev. Charles Simeon was born in 1759. He was educated at Eton, and 
entered at King's College, Cambridge, in 1 776. In 1783 he was presented to the 
living of Trinity Church in the same University, and continued its rector during the 



932 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Simeon. 

remainder o^his life, a period of fifty-three years. He was a popular and influential 
preacher, and wrote during the course of his ministry 2536 sermons, which form a 
complete commentary on the Holy Scriptures. He received 5000/. from Messrs. 
Cadell for the copyright of his works, of which he gave 1000/. to the Society for 
Promoting Christianity among the Jews; 1000/. to the London Clerical and 
Educational Society; and 1000/. to the Church Missionary Society. Mr. Simeon 
died in 1836.] 

At the commencement of the Reformation the most lamentable 
ignorance prevailed throughout the land : and even those who from 
their office ought to have been well instructed in the Holy Scriptures, 
themselves needed to be taught what were the first principles of the 
oracles of God. If then the pious and venerable Reformers of our 
Church had not provided a suitable form of prayer, the people would 
still in many thousands of parishes have remained in utter darkness : 
but by the diffusion of this sacred light throughout the land, every 
part of the kingdom became in a good measure irradiated with 
scriptural knowledge, and with saving truth. The few who were en- 
lightened, might indeed have scattered some partial rays around them ; 
but their light would have been only as a meteor, that passes away and 
leaves no permanent effect. Moreover, if their zeal and knowledge 
and piety had been suffered to die with them, we should have in vain 
sought for compositions of equal excellence from any set of governors 
from that day to the present hourj but by conveying to posterity the 
impress of their own piety in stated forms of prayer, they have in them 
transmitted a measure of their own spirit, which, like Elijah's mantle, 
has descended on multitudes who have succeeded them in their high 
office. It is not possible to form a correct estimate of the benefit 
which we at this day derive from having such a standard of piety in 
our hands : but we do not speak too strongly if we say, that the most 
enlightened amongst us, of whatever denomination they may be, owe 
much to the existence of our Liturgy ; which has been, as it were, the 
pillar and ground of the truth in this kingdom, and has served as fuel to 
perpetuate the flame, which the Lord himself, at the time of the Re- 
formation, kindled upon our altars. 

But we must go further, and say, that the use of the Liturgy is 
equally expedient still. Of course, we must not be understood as 
speaking of private prayer in the closet ; where though a young and 
inexperienced person may get help from written forms, it is desirable 
that every one should learn to express his own wants in his own 
language} because no written prayer can enter so minutely into his 
wants and feelings as he himself may do j but, in public, we maintain, 
that the use of such a form as ours is still as expedient as ever. To 
lead the devotions of a congregation in extempore prayer is a work for 
which but few are qualified. An extensive knowledge of the Scrip- 



Simeon.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 933 

tures must be combined with fervent piety, in order to fit a person for 
such an undertaking : and I greatly mistake, if there be found a 
humble person in the world, who, after often engaging in the arduous 
work, does not wish at times that he had a suitable form prepared for 
him. That the constant repetition of the same form does not so forcibly 
arrest the attention as new sentiments and expressions would do, must 
be confessed ; but, on the other hand, the use of a well-composed 
form secures us ngainst the dry, dull, tedious repetitions which are but 
too frequently the fruits of extemporaneous devotions. Only let any 
person be in a devout frame, and he will be far more likely to have 
his soul elevated to heaven by the Liturgy of the Established Church, 
than he will by the generality of prayers which he would hear in other 
places of worship : and, if any one complain that he cannot enter 
into the spirit of them, let him only examine his frame of mind when 
engaged in extemporaneous prayers, whether in public, or in his own 
family 5 and he will find, that his formality is not confined to the 
service of the Church, but is the sad fruit and consequence of his 
own weakness and corruption. 

Here it may not be amiss to rectify the notions which are frequently 
entertained of spiritual edification. Many, if their imaginations are 
pleased, and their spirits elevated, are ready to think that they have 
been greatly edified ■ and this error is at the root of that preference 
which they give to extempore prayer, and the indifference which they 
manifest towards the prayers of the Established Church. But real 
edification consists in humility of mind, and in being led to a more 
holy and consistent walk with God : and one atom of such a spirit is 
more valuable than all the animal fervour that ever was excited. It 
is with solid truths, and not with fluent words, that we are to be 
impressed : and if we can desire from our hearts the things w^hich we 
pray for in our public forms, we need nev^er regret that our fancy 
was not gratified, or our animal spirits raised, by the delusive charms 
of novelty. 

In what we have spoken on this subject it must be remembered, 
that we have spoken only in a way of vindication : the true, the 
exalted, and the proper ground for a member and minister of the 
Established Church, we have left for the present nn touched, lest we 
should encroach upon that, which we hope to occupy on a future 
occasion. But it remains for us yet further to remark, that the use of 
our Liturgy is acceptable to God. 

The words of our text are suflBcient to show us, that God does not 
look at fine words and fluent expressions, but at the heart. The 
Israelites had "well said all that they had spoken :" but wiiilst God 
acknowledged that, he added, " O that there were such an heart ia 



934 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK [Kingsley. 

them !" If there be humility and contrition in our supplications, it 
will make no dilFerence with God whether they be extemporaneous or 
pre-composed. Can any one doubt whether, if we were to address 
our heavenly Father in the words which Christ himself has taught us, 
we should be accepted of him, provided we uttered the ditferent 
petitions from our hearts ? As little doubt then is there that in the 
use of the Liturgy also we shall be accepted, if only we draw nigh to 
God with our hearts as well as with our lips. The prayer of faith, 
whether with or without a form, shall never go forth in vain. And 
there are thousands at this day who can attest from their own experi- 
ence, that they have often found God as present with them in the use 
of the public services of our Church, as ever they did in their secret 
chambers. — Sermons on the Liturgy oj the Church of England. 



365.— CAUSE OF THE DEFECTS IN MODERN POETRY. 

[Rev. Charles Kingslev, 1819. 

[The Rev. Charles Kingsley was born at Holne Vicarage, on the borders of Dart- 
moor, Devon, June 12, 1819. He was educated at home until the age of fourteen, 
when h; became a pupil of the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, and afterwards a student at 
King's College, London, whence he removed to Magdalen College, Cambridge. He 
took a first class in classics, and a second class in mathematics. On faking orders 
he became curate at Eversley, a moorland parish in Hants, and the living becoming 
vacant it was presented to him. In 1859 Mr. King.-ley was appointed Professor of 
Modern History in the University of Cambridge. He is Chaplain in Ordinary to the 
Queen. His works are, "Alton Locke," " Yeast," " Hypatia," "Phaethon," "Alexandria 
and her Schools," " Glaucus, or the "Wonders of the Shore," " Westward Ho !" 
" Two Years Ago," " Water Babies," " Saint's Tragedy," " Andromeda," " Miscel- 
lanies," " Sermons," " The Hermits,'' &c. &c.] 

It is impossible to give outward form to that which is in its very nature 
formless, like doubt and discontent. For on such subjects thought 
itself is not defined ; it has no limit, no self-coherence, not even 
method or organic law. And in a poem, as in all else, the body must 
be formed according to the law of the inner life ; the utterance must 
be the expression, the outward and visible autotype, of the spirit which 
animates it. But where the thought is defined by no limits, it cannot 
express itself in form, for form is that which has limits. Where it has 
no inward unity it cannot have any outward one. If the spirit be 
impatient of all moral rule, its utterance will be equally impatient of 
all artistic rule ; and thus, as we are now beginning to discover from 
experience, the poetry of doubt will find itself unable to use those 
forms of verse which have been always held to be the highest 5 tragedy, 
epic, the ballad, and lastly, even the subjective lyrical ode. For they, 
too, to judge by every great lyric which remains to us, require a 



Kingsley.] OF MODERN LITERATURE. 935 

groundwork of consistent, self-coherent belief; and they require also 
an appreciation of melody even more delicate, and a verbal polish even 
more complete, than any other form of poetic utterance. But where 
there is no melody within, there will be no melody without. It is in 
vain to attempt the setting of spiritual discords to physical music. The 
mere practical patience and self-restraint requisite to w^ork out rhythm 
when fixed on, will be wanting; nay, the fitting rhythm will never 
be found, the subject itself being arhythmic ; and thus we shall have, 
or rather, alas ! do have, a wider and wider divorce of sound and 
sense, a greater and greater carelessness for polish, and for the charm 
of musical utterance, and watch the clear and spirit-stirring melodies 
of the older poets swept away by a deluge of half-metrical prose-run- 
mad, diffuse, Unfinished, unmusical, to which any other metre than 
that in which it happens ro have been written would have been 
equally appropriate, because all are equally inappropriate; and where 
men have nothing to sing, it is not of the slightest consequence how 
they sing it. 

While poets persist in thinking and writing thus, it is in vain for 
them to talk loud about the poet's divine mission, as the prophet of 
mankind, the swayer of the universe, and so forth. Not that we 
believe the poet simply by virtue of being a singer to have any 
such power. While young gentlemen are talking about governing 
heaven and earth by verse, Wellingtons and Peels, Arkwrights and 
Stephensons, Frys and Chisholms, are doing it by plain practical prose ; 
and even of those who have moved and led the hearts of men by verse, 
every one, as far as we know, has produced his magical effects by 
poetry of the very opposite form to that which is now in fashion. 
What poet ever had more influence than Homer ? What poet is more 
utterly antipodal to our modern schools ? There are certain Hebrew 
psalms, too, which will be confessed, even by those who differ most 
from them, to hav^e exercised some slight influence on human thought 
and action, and to be likely to exercise the same for some time to 
come. Are they any more like our modern poetic forms than they 
are like our modern poetic matter ? Ay, even in our own time what has 
been the form, what the temper, of all poetry, from Korner and Heine, 
which has made the German heart leap up, but simplicity, manhood, 
clearness, finished melody, the very opposite, in a word, of our new 
school ? And to look at home, what is the modern poetry which lives 
)n the lips and in the hearts of Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen ? 
It is not only simple in form and language, but much of it fitted, by a 
severe exercise of arti-,tic patience, to tunes already existing. Who 
does not remember hovvthe " Marseillaise " was born, or how Burns's 
*' Scots wha ha' wi' Wallace bled," or the story of AJooie's taking the 



936 THE EFERY-DAY BOOK OF MODERN LITERATURE. [Kingsley. 

old " Red Fox March," and giving it a new immortality as "Let 
Erin remember the days of old/' while poor Emmett sprang up and 
cried, " Oh that I had twenty thousand Irishmen marching to that 
tune !" So it is, even to this day, and let those who hanker after 
poetic fame take note of it j not a poem which is now really living 
but has gained its immortality by virtue of simplicity and positive 
faith. — Miscellanies, vol. i. pp. 298-301. 







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